Pied Piper
by JennK528
Summary: Someone is collecting unusual children. Children rather like Sam. Unfortunately, Dean and Sam discover why.
1. Chapter 1

"Pied Piper"

A/N: It was my original intention to not even begin posting this story until I was nearly done with writing it. (Having thought I'd learned something from the last multi-chapter fic I wrote…) But after starting this three months ago, and even when I thought I was done with this part (HA!), I've been tweaking it and picking at it like a Thanksgiving turkey carcass. So I decided the only way to stop was to let it go and post it now.

So that means... Apologies up front for what I'm sure will be a long wait between chapters! However, since this first chapter was so frelling long, I split it up a bit, and will post it in two parts.

No Metallicars were hurt in the writing of this fic. Can't say the same for Dean.

Spoilers for "Nightmare." This story follows directly after that episode.

The usual bad language. Blood and violence, but oh so tastefully rendered.

And last, a very big "thank you!" and a warm hug to Angela, for her wonderful and amazing beta. This is a better story because of her. Thanks, Angela!

xxxxx

Chapter 1

Fire was the usual nightmare, unsurprisingly. Fire and heat and his own screams, and the utter helplessness of watching her burn. Dean had dragged him out of the fire – both times. Not that he remembered that first, defining one, and he had only learned that particular (and not unexpected, really) detail just recently. And it was Dean who dragged him out of the nightmares.

Sam knew he was dreaming. Knew it. But that didn't stop the horrific chain of events from unfolding with brutal clarity. He whimpered at what was to come. He fought to change it, to stop it. To wake up from it. But his subconscious obviously had other ideas . . . . Another smothered moan emerged from his throat, and he felt it, saw it. Again. Blood, first. Not much, not much at all. Then his startled, wide-eyed stare and gasping cry. The fire blossomed in awesome beauty, curling in on her as she lay framed, splayed against the ceiling. He screamed, and Dean was there. In the dream. Hauling him roughly out of the room, away from her, and he struggled every step of the way.

But something . . . something was different. After so many nights and nightmares, he could taste it.

Fire. It was still fire. But . . . blood. More blood. And panic and gut-wrenching terror. He could feel himself breathing hard and fast, his heart pounding. Stabbing pain shot thought his head.

_Wake up, Sam! _

But he was trapped. Where was Dean?

The fear was suffocating.

Dean. _Dean. _

"Sam!"

The voice, urgent, harsh, was in his ear. Strong hands held his shoulders. He felt the bed dip as Dean's weight settled on one edge.

"Sam, Jesus, wake up already!" The hands gave his shoulders a slight shake. "It's all right now. Come on, Sam."

But Sam could hear the fear running beneath the impatience, a counterpoint, off-key. So he somehow forced his eyes open. And saw Dean bathed in flames, his face a work of art, a sharp-angled cheekbone half-hidden in shadow, and the glow of fire slanting across him in a dramatic chiaroscuro . . . . The scream that began to build in his throat died when Dean bent closer, shadows danced, and the fire bled into the garish red of neon, flickering and buzzing outside the motel window.

Sam remembered to breathe, then. Blinking rapidly, his eyes looked straight into Dean's hazel ones – green and gold, pupils wide – no longer reflecting flames, but rather worry, fatigue, and a soundless _Are you all right?_

"I'm awake," Sam said, his voice hoarse, his view of the ceiling blocked, intentionally, he was sure, by Dean looming over him.

"Well, it's about time," came the grumbling – relieved – reply, as Dean cast a quick, scrutinizing gaze over him before letting go and straightening up with a slight grimace.

Dean didn't get up, though, and Sam fought the sudden reflexive urge to seize Dean's arm to make sure he stayed.

"Thanks," Sam sighed. Time shifted, and for a moment he wasn't quite sure which Dean he was talking to, the twelve-year-old who never laughed when he wanted to crawl into bed with him after a nightmare, or the one currently giving Sam another worried stare. "Sorry," he added, seeing the weary slump of Dean's shoulders. "Didn't mean to wake you up." He shoved sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.

"Headache?" Dean asked, eyes still studying him, seemingly casual.

But Sam knew all the signs. Big Brother Worry. The ever so slight tightness around Dean's eyes and mouth, the flicker in those intent eyes. The question, almost an afterthought. And if Dean hadn't been hurting, unable to completely disguise his own exhaustion, Sam probably wouldn't have even caught as much as he did.

Sam managed a nod, closing his eyes again. "Yeah, kinda." The rapid thud of his heartbeat had gradually evened out, and he no longer felt as though he were breathing flames and choking on smoke. But he nearly gagged at the remembered coppery taste of blood in the back of his throat. So much blood . . . . He shuddered, his thoughts chasing something elusive, something . . . off.

Dean patted his leg. "Hang on." The sagging bedsprings gave another creak as Dean stood up, and Sam heard him moving about the small room, no doubt going into the bathroom for the all too recently used first-aid kit.

A moment later Dean was back, helping Sam sit up just enough to wash down some painkillers with a few swallows of water.

There was something so intrinsically wrong about Dean looking after him tonight – _he_ wasn't hurt. He was just having the usual run-of-the-mill nightmare (_but not quite_, his mind whispered somewhere deep and dark), not bleeding into the seat of the Impala or the ugly green motel towels, scarlet oozing between tightly clenched fingers clamped over a gaping wound . . . .

Sam blinked, the dream blurring and merging with the events of the last few hours, and all he saw was blood. Dean. Dean was blood all over. He shivered. Another blink. And then Dean was standing patiently over him, not quite swaying, and Sam thought guiltily that his brother should be the one in bed, that _he_ should be fussing. He should've stayed awake, watching over Dean. Just in case.

Not that Dean would see it that way, of course.

"Thanks," Sam said again, shifting to get a better look at Dean, shoving himself more upright on a quivering elbow. "How are you feeling?" he asked, scanning Dean's features. "Get any sleep?" Even in the bad light he could see Dean's pallor and the fine tremor in his hand as he set the now empty glass on the table between the two beds. "You all right?" he persisted, when Dean didn't respond.

"Fine," came the terse reply.

"You've got twenty stitches in your arm –"

"Yeah, and they're _just fine_, Sam."

_So much blood. Everywhere. _

Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

"Sammy?"

"Uh, yeah . . . ." He reached out blindly, and Dean's hand, warm, too warm, Sam thought in a hazy, offhand way, immediately curled around his. "Dean? You're all right?" He had to ask again. The fear was so strong and wouldn't go away, and shit, the pain was building to another roaring crescendo, and why was there so much blood and twisted metal and _where was Dean?_

"Sammy?" There was another note in Dean's voice, higher and sharper. "What is it, Sam? Come on, stay with me here."

"_You_ stay," Sam whispered, opening his eyes a slit and pleading silently, almost crushing Dean's hand in his own.

"Okay, okay, I'm right here." Dean eased back down on the edge of the bed, still hanging onto Sam's hand. "Go back to sleep, all right? I'll stay here."

"Okay," Sam said, doing his best to banish dream, vision, whatever the hell it had been, from his mind, and just keep Dean where he was, so Sam _knew_ where he was . . . . He moved over, making room, and tugged Dean's hand. "You sleep, too," he slurred, eyes refusing to stay open any longer. "You look like crap."

A soft snort of laughter answered him. But he felt Dean lie down and stretch out with a quiet sigh that was almost a wince, and then Sam finally let go of Dean's hand, fading off, knowing with an eight-year-old's certainty that whatever might be out there in the dark would not get past his brother. It wouldn't dare.

xxxxx

_He really should get out of the sun. Not that he didn't mind lazing on the beach, beer in hand, watching the girls go by, but it was getting warm, and the sand wasn't quite as comfortable for sleeping as he'd first thought._

_And it was getting hotter. A thin line of sweat burned its way down his temple, cheek, then another, blurring into his eyes, dripping off his chin. His arm was on fire. From shoulder to fingertips. It throbbed, and ached, and his skin felt too tight. On fire . . . ._

_Fire. And the flash of silver as the blade descended. He twisted, not quick enough. Considering it was dead and decaying, the creature sure moved damn fast. The knife sliced across his arm, opening a deep, wide gash, the hot, flaring pain acknowledged but then ignored; the same for the warm flow of blood already soaking his sleeve._

_As the grinning revenant raised the knife for another blow, Dean dodged away, brought up the shotgun, and fired into the thing's chest. It staggered back, snarling in rage, and then Sam was there, with salt and fire and shouted words of power to bind it and seal it and turn it into ashes and dust. Dean stood back, chest heaving, and watched the thing die. Again._

_The revenant's final maddened screams faded into the dark, and the cemetery fell quiet once again. The only sound was that of the wind in the trees, and the dust eddied away into the night on that slightest of breezes. Still breathing hard, Dean crashed to his knees, shotgun slipping from numb fingers as the pain__clamored loudly for attention._

_"Hey, Dean," Sam said, dropping down beside him, sucking in a deep breath as well. "You okay?"_

"Dean?" The voice echoed in his head, in the dream. "Dean, hey. You awake?"

A light brush of a hand across his forehead then, the hand settling for a moment, and a quietly muttered "Shit," followed by a few more muttered words, of which Dean caught "hospital" and "infection."

He pried his eyelids open at that, and blinked, just a little muzzy. Daylight stabbed his eyes; he started to roll over to avoid it, and hissed between gritted teeth when – too late – he remembered the knife wound, the stitches, and the fact that the revenant dream wasn't a dream.

No sandy, sunny beach, either. Just another mom'n'pop motel, somewhere off the beaten track.

"Shit," he whispered hoarsely, repeating Sam's sentiment. His eyes closed for a second, seeing again the silver in the moonlight and the revenant's dead, rotted face. Gingerly cradling his right arm against his side, an entirely real bead of sweat slid down his face. _Shit,_ he thought, feeling the inner fire of a fever. He licked dry lips and opened his eyes again to see Sam, frowning, standing over him. _Sam. Hurt? Not the revenant. No, something else . . . ._

It started to come back, in a distant sort of way . . . . A low moan had roused him from a half-waking and uneasy sleep, and in an instant he'd stumbled over to Sam's bed to find his brother caught in the throes of a nightmare. After Sam had thrashed his way out, and then settled down again, Dean had wound up stretching out next to Sam, lying awake in the dark, simply waiting for him to fall asleep. Relieved when Sam had drifted off without a sound – seemingly peaceful this time – only then had he allowed himself to gradually follow suit, though his own sleep had been restless and uncomfortable.

And now Sam was staring at him like he'd grown another head or something, or maybe horns, or fangs . . . .

Dean clenched his teeth and struggled to sit up. "Sam, what is it?" he panted. "Are you all right?"

His brother sure didn't _look_ all right. He looked . . . not all here.

"Sam?" he tried again. Uneasy, alarms going off in his head, he started to get up, disregarding the agony that immediately escalated to new heights.

That seemed to break Sam out of his odd reverie. He shook his head, and his eyes cleared. "I'm okay." He stopped Dean with a firm hand on his chest. "Stay there." With that, Sam grabbed the first-aid kit still on the nightstand, dropped down on the bed next to him, and said, "I need to check the stitches in your arm and take your temperature."

Like he was in charge or something.

"Why?" Dean edged up toward the headboard, warily seeking some distance.

"Why do you think?"

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said, eyeing the thermometer and resisting the urge to reach up a hand and wipe the sweat off his flushed face.

"Uh huh." Sam's eyes wandered to Dean's shoulder, and he suddenly looked a little too pale in the morning light. "Look," he began, meeting Dean's gaze. "It was late when I looked at your arm, that light in the bathroom completely sucks, and I want to make sure I didn't . . . miss anything last night while stitching you up. So humor me, okay?"

"What's the big deal, huh? A few stitches. Quit playin' nurse."

"You've got a fever," Sam said patiently.

"Sam . . . I'm all right." His arm throbbed heavily in sync with his heartbeat, and he did his best to keep the grimace off his face. "Come on, you did the holy water wash and rinse thing, and you put in a very nice line of neat little stitches that won't even scar that much. What could be wrong?"

A quick hand darted out to smack lightly on his forehead before Dean could duck. "You're a little warm. Now open wide." He wiggled the thermometer. "And while you've got this under your tongue –" suiting action to word even as Dean opened his mouth in objection – "I'm gonna look at your arm."

Dean shut his mouth with a squawk and tried talking around the offending instrument, but subsided when Sam gave him a glare. He carefully hid the wince from Sam when his brother gently removed the somewhat sticking gauze bandage from his upper right arm.

But he didn't do quite as well with the flinch.

"Sorry," Sam murmured, flinching a little himself. He tossed the lightly bloodied bandage into the trashcan in the corner and inspected his handiwork as Dean turned his head to look as well.

Yep, nice neat row of stitches. Black thread. The skin slightly red, puffy, okay, yeah, a little tender. No big deal. Nothing new here . . . . Wasn't like he couldn't drive, was it? Practically little more than a paper cut. Really.

"Sam . . . ." He tried again.

"Sit still," came the terse command. "And keep quiet."

"Woof," Dean muttered, out of one side of his mouth. But as he leaned back against the headboard, fatigue and blurring pain washed over him, and he wearily admitted, at least to himself, that maybe he wasn't quite up to his usual ass-kicking standard of excellence. And flicking a glance at Sam, he thought maybe his little brother wasn't either.

"The stitches look all right," Sam said, grudgingly. "Clean."

"Told ya."

"Shut up."

The thermometer beeped.

Dean heaved a martyred sigh as Sam took it out of his mouth and glared at it.

"101.8," Sam said. The glare, not hiding the worry as well as Sam probably thought, turned Dean's way. "Knife wound courtesy of a corpse. Fever. Probably fighting off infection. You're staying in bed." A finger went in the air as Dean started to talk. _"Or_ I can find the nearest hospital, clinic, or doctor's office and drag your ass there. Your choice." Then he added, "I might anyway, if your temperature goes up."

"God, you sure get bossy when you miss a few hours of sleep," Dean grumbled, slumping a little lower on the bed. "Bitch," he added, but it came out half-heartedly.

"Asshole," Sam returned, digging into the first-aid kit again. Finding what he wanted, he shook some pills out of a bottle. "Here." He turned Dean's good hand upward and dropped the pills in his palm. "These should help with the fever." He got up and returned from the bathroom with a glass of water.

"Sam –"

"I mean it. Take the damn drugs, Dean, and get some rest." He stood there until Dean tossed the pills in his mouth, then handed him the water. "Drink up. You need plenty of liquids." Dean grumbled but drained the glass. "We're staying another night. I'll go let 'em know at the front desk. Then I'll get us some breakfast, do some shopping. Car keys?"

Dean sighed. "Dresser."

Sam spun, snagged the keys and hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door on his way out.

Well, shit.

xxxxx

The rising fever and pain soon sent him spinning into a dark place of restless, half-waking dreams. Sometimes he knew he was with Sam, somewhere in Michigan, other times . . . . The reek of death was all around, rotting, cloying, filling his nostrils, nothing but the scent of dank earth, old blood, and ancient graves. Chasing, being chased, terror at his back, faceless, nameless, running and running, screaming for Sam, trying to find Sam in the dark, in the fire – and he'd wake shaking and sweating, feeling the tangle of sheets around his legs, and Sam was there calming, soothing, getting him to swallow something nasty and glass after glass of water. Once or twice, a little more lucid but still not completely aware, he thought, crazily, that Sam was actually wiping his face and chest with a cool, damp cloth.

He cringed at the image that conjured up, but at the same moment, found he was deliberately seeking the relief that trailed over his forehead and temples.

"Dean?" The coolness settled across his brow. "Are you back?"

"Mm," he thought he mumbled. But his eyelids weighed ten pounds each, and his limbs were equally leaden. The fire was still there, but only smoldering now, not searing away skin and sinew. His arm throbbed with a dull ache that had his fingers twitching, but it wasn't enough to keep him from drifting away again. He might have heard a sigh, and a quiet, "I guess not," before everything faded. Everything except the light brush of a cool cloth across his skin.

He woke hours, or days, later. Slowly. Surroundings gradually came into focus. Familiar in an odd sort of way. Fake knotty pine. And lots of green. Dull, ugly green. Swamp green. Dead frog green. _Kermit._ He almost giggled. He managed, somehow, to roll his head limply toward the window, and saw burnished sunlight slanting through the partially open green (of course) curtains.

And saw Sam, on the other bed; face mashed in a pillow and fast asleep.

Smiling, he faded away for a while, waking some time later, a little clearer. He lay there, still drowsy, warm but no longer on fire, and he looked for Sam again. His brother was yet asleep, but even as he watched with drooping eyes, he saw Sam suddenly jerk as though shot and bring his hands up to his head. Sam's face twisted in a frown, and he let out a quiet moan.

Instinct overriding thought, Dean forgot his own pain, confusion, and lethargy and forced his sluggish body to respond to his will. Another moan, louder, got him up on rubbery legs, wounded arm tucked stiffly against his side. He gritted his teeth, lurched the two steps across to his brother's bed and abruptly fell rather than sat down on the edge.

"Sam?" he whispered, his throat dry. His skin felt tight and drawn. His head swam. Black spots danced across his eyes. He blinked them away and jeeringly derided himself for even thinking about passing out. "Hey, Sam?"

Long limbs curled in, Sam now clutched at his head, fingers knotted in his hair, and eyes screwed tightly shut. Reaching clumsily for Sam's wrists, Dean kept calling his name, trying to break through whatever excruciating vision Sam was caught up in. And judging from the deep furrowed lines of pain on Sam's face, Dean had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that it _was_ a vision, not merely another nightmare – as if those weren't bad enough . . . .

_Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy. Please, not again._

"Sam, come on, Sammy, enough already, huh? Snap out of it," he said, barely able to force the words out.

He didn't know if Sam could even hear him, but he didn't give up his increasingly urgent pleas for Sam to wake up.

The tortured moans finally ended on a quiet whimper. Dean felt Sam's hands relax beneath his own, and he gently disengaged his brother's trembling fingers from their tight grasp and lay them down on the bed. But he didn't let go, not yet.

"Sam?" he said softly. A long moment later a faint squeeze on his hands was enough to get Dean breathing again. He squeezed back. "Come on, Sam, time to wake up, okay? Show me you're still in there somewhere."

His face drawn and strained, Sam slowly straightened a little from his cramped position and opened his eyes.

Dean felt a chill work its way down his spine at the stark desolation and darkness he saw in Sam's wide eyes, eyes that stared past him, gazing with mute horror into a hell that only Sam could see.

The loose grip Sam had on his hands turned suddenly, crushingly painful.

"Sam?" He heard the slightly frantic tone in his failing voice and quelled it when he spoke again. "Sammy, it's all right. You hear me? Whatever it is you see, we'll figure it out, okay? Now come on, geek boy, say something." His throat tightened. "Anything. In Latin. Greek. Hell, Middle English, I don't care. Hindi. Arabic."

With an inward sigh of enormous relief, he watched as Sam's gaze tracked back to meet his, reason slowly returning, the horror fading. But not entirely disappearing . . . .

"Dean?" Sam said at last, breathy and scratchy, but sweet to Dean's ears nonetheless.

"Yeah. I'm right here, Sammy."

"You . . . you're all right?" Sam stared at him with an unsettling intensity.

"I'm fine, Sam." _I am now. _

Sam frowned, as if unconvinced, and looked down at his hands, still tightly gripping Dean's. "Sorry," he whispered, easing up and sliding his fingers away.

"It's okay," Dean said. "Really." He took a deep breath, and absently cradled his arm against his ribs. "How about you, Sammy? Are _you_ all right? Fill me in here."

Sam went absolutely white and without another word scrambled past Dean off the bed to bolt for the bathroom. The door slammed shut on the sounds of retching.

Dean felt sick himself, wishing – not for the first time – that his little brother could be spared all this crap. For someone who just wanted a "normal" life, Sam sure kept getting more weird shit thrown his way.

A sense of helpless frustration hit him. How could he possibly protect Sam from something he didn't even understand? From random horrific visions that practically had Sam passing out from the pain, visions that hit without warning . . . .

He swore under his breath as he slid off the bed and made his own rather unsteady way to the bathroom. Catching sight of his jeans tossed over a chair, he took time to pull them on, his hands clumsy, his movements awkward. The continued exertion was almost too much. His vision blurred, his fevered thoughts wanted to wander. Feeling the sweat break out anew on his face, he briefly leaned palms and forehead against the bathroom door. God, what was wrong with him? It was just a damn scratch . . . . He sucked in a breath and gathered his strength to open the door and go in.

Long body hunched awkwardly on the floor, Sam was bent over the toilet. Dean put a hand on his heaving back until the spasms passed. Stepping around Sam, he reached the sink and filled a glass of water, grimacing as he got an inadvertent glimpse of his own ashen, haggard features in the mirror. Yeah, they were quite a pair at the moment.

"Thanks," Sam breathed, leaning back against the wall. He took the glass, rinsing and spitting first then drinking deeply.

"Better?"

"Yeah." Another deep breath. "Guess so."

"Wanna move yet?" Dean eyed him critically. Not quite death warmed over anymore, but not by much. And his eyes . . . his eyes still held too many haunted shadows.

"In a minute, okay?" Sam murmured, tipping his head back.

"Sure. Take your time."

Dean waited until Sam nodded, then put out a hand. "Come on, I got ya."

Sam just looked pointedly at Dean's arm and struggled upright by himself, on shaky fawn legs.

"I'm all right, Dean," he said, still pale. "You're the one with the stitched-up knife wound and a fever. You should be in bed."

"Ah, hell, I'm okay," Dean said, wincing at the drag of exhaustion in his voice. "Just a scratch," he went on, the cockiness not quite there. "If it was gonna kill me, I'd be dead by now."

Sam's lips thinned, a muscle jumped in his jaw, but he just reached out to put the back of one hand against Dean's forehead. Dean pulled away, swearing.

"Enough, Sam."

"Better," Sam conceded, sounding relieved, "but still warm. You were at 105 not long ago, Dean – "

"You stuck a thermometer in my mouth when I was asleep?"

"Who said anything about sticking it in your mouth?" Sam asked, suddenly looking wickedly innocent despite his pallor.

Dean's mouth curled up in disgust. "Oh, that is sick and so not funny. And you're a lying little bastard, Sam."

"Yeah, you just keep thinking that, Dean." Continuing to closely study him, Sam sobered up. "But seriously, dude, you still look like crap. Get back to bed."

"Thank you, Doc Winchester. Now can we take this conversation out of the bathroom, please?"

Sam gestured. "After you."

Dean pushed himself away from the wall, trying not to act as though it was the only thing keeping him upright, and managed to get out of the bathroom and over to the dresser without falling on either his face or his ass. After a quick rummage through his bag, he took out the least offensive-looking – and smelling – shirt he could find, and with a quiet but definite grunt of pain shrugged into it and buttoned it up haphazardly.

Watching Sam cautiously weave his way over to a bed, Dean was half expecting, dreading, that his brother would pull some random street address out of thin air, sending them off to Amarillo, Texas, or Greeley, Colorado, or someplace in the middle of God knew where, and that they had to be there in three hours or something incredibly dire would happen.

Arms braced on the back of a chair, all Dean could see when he closed his eyes was Max. Poor scared Max and his fucked-up childhood, his anger, his power, and Sam's guilt at not saving him in the end . . . .

Dean was sure as hell not gonna let anything like _that _happen again. Ever.

He blinked his eyes open to find Sam watching _him,_ the worry all too obvious.

"Sit down before you fall down, you moron," his brother said, from where he already sat on one of the beds. Sam sounded about as awful as Dean felt. "That 'scratch' was more serious than I thought." Dean caught the hesitation, slight though it was, before Sam continued, not quite meeting his eyes. "You were really out of it all day, Dean."

Dean straightened. Sam didn't say it, but Dean heard it.

_You were in bad shape, and I was utterly freaked out of my mind, and will you please stop scaring me like that. _

"Well, I'm all right now," he returned. As in, _Everything worked out; whatever it was, you did a good job; now just chill already, Sammy._

Sam did not appear greatly reassured.

Dean breathed a quiet sigh and took a matching position on the other bed, close enough that his knees nearly bumped into Sam's. He waited patiently as Sam fidgeted, staring down at his clasped hands. "I'm all right, Sam," he said again. "Quit worrying. Just tell me what you saw, okay?"

A bob of his head, a harsh indrawn breath, and Sam went still. "It's . . . confusing," he began, voice low, a little raspy. Hesitantly, cocking his head as though trying to recall details, he went on. "It . . . started off like the . . . nightmare . . . the same one, you know?" A glance up at Dean. Dean just nodded. "Had it last night, too, when I woke you up. Didn't know then. Didn't see it all, only bits and pieces . . . ." He scrubbed hands over his eyes, down his face. "Sorry. I'm not telling this very well. Like last night, then it . . . changed. Turned into a vision. Like . . . the others."

"What, you mean somebody dying? That kind?"

No answer, no reaction.

"Sammy? What did you see?"

"An accident. Kids." Sam's eyes lost focus. "An old, beat-up orange minivan. Ugly as hell. Kids inside. And . . . we were there. I think we were, I mean. I saw . . . . Blood everywhere. And then . . . and then . . . . Oh God, Dean, I can't find you." Panic, raw fear, the kind Dean only heard in Sam's voice when it involved Dean. "You're gone, and I can't find you, and it's nothing but blood –"

Dean leaned forward and reached out to grab Sam by the shoulders, stilling him. "Sam, it's all right, take it easy, okay? I'm here, I'm right here." He waited until Sam's ragged breathing got back under control. In a quiet, coaxing voice, he went on. "What else, Sammy? What else can you see? Don't look for me, look around you. What else?"

Sam shook his head, his features stamped with utter weariness. "That's it, just flashes. The kids' faces. It's dark . . . . They're scared."

"How many kids? Can you see them?"

"Uh . . . ." Sam's face screwed up. "Three. Two are . . . older. Teenage. Fourteen? Fifteen? Boy. And a girl." Dean watched as the frown deepened. "Another girl. Younger. Maybe . . . I dunno. Eight? Ten?" He shook his head. "Everything went by too fast, sorry. Just flashes."

"What about the driver?" Dean prodded, when Sam fell silent again.

After a moment Sam shrugged, and looked at Dean. "Can't see anyone. It's . . . dark."

"Okay, that's good, Sam. Real good. But what do we do? Do we stop the accident from happening? Or," Dean frowned suddenly, "do we cause it? _We're_ there, you said. What are we – you – doing?"

"Don't know. In the car." Sam's voice rose. "I don't know where you are, Dean! I can't find you, and there's blood, and fire. Everywhere. Jesus Christ, Dean, make it stop, please, just make it stop . . . ."

His face crumpled, he slumped forward and Dean slid off the bed to catch him. They wound up crowded awkwardly together in the narrow space on the floor, with Sam's head jammed against Dean's shoulder, long legs bent, and Dean simply hanging onto him.

Whatever adrenaline-fueled energy had kept him going this long suddenly fled. He fought to stay conscious even as he ignored the renewed agony that jolted through his stitched arm. It was nothing compared to the worry and fear that he felt for his brother. "It's all right, Sammy," he murmured. "We'll get it. Promise. Won't let anything bad happen to you . . . ."

TBC . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Okay, chapter 1, part b. This contains completely extraneous Dean whumping, but when I thought about taking it out when it got too long, I utterly cringed at how much work that would be. And since I'm incredibly lazy, I decided to leave it in. My angst, dear reader, is now your angst!

I would've put this section up last night as well, but my eyeballs were falling out of my head, and oh, yeah, I decided to rewrite a little bit first. (Insert head slap to Jen here. Thank you.)

And thanks for the reviews already! Wow!

Hey, what is it with ffnet and italics? I swear, I lose half of them when I upload a story. . . .

xxxxx

Chapter 2

As the blinding headache mercifully eased and awareness made a gradual return, vision and memory overlapped. For a brief disorienting moment, Sam panicked when he felt Dean lying limp and folded up against him. Dean, bathed in blood and fire; Dean, burning with fever . . . . He opened his eyes with a startled gasp and realized he was leaning right into Dean's wounded arm, with Dean's other arm, protective, comforting, crooked loosely around his back. The fever still lingered in Dean's body; Sam could feel it right through the thin cotton shirt Dean wore, and his brother breathed in fast, shallow pants. Sam swore quietly and eased slightly away from him, taking care not to jar Dean's shoulder in the process.

"Dean?" he said softly.

A sweat-soaked head fell into Sam's neck, a puff of breath on his skin. The encircling arm slid away from Sam's back.

"Dean."

He raised a hand to curve around the nape of Dean's neck. Warm. Pulse quick and light.

"Come on," he said, quieter still. "Let's get you back into bed, okay?"

Sam gracelessly extricated his long legs from their cramped position, keeping a steadying hand on Dean while wobbling to his feet. Then he reached down to put his hands under Dean's arms and hoisted him upright with a grunt, Dean pliant and slack against him.

Dean roused somewhat then, his limbs straining in wordless protest of Sam's hold.

"Easy," Sam soothed. "It's just me. I've gotcha." And that was enough to quiet his brother down. A moment later and Dean was again in bed, the sheet pulled halfway up his chest, Sam sitting next to him.

"Sammy?" It was a dry, bare whisper. "You . . . all righ'?" His head lolled, and heavy, tired eyes tried to focus on Sam.

"Yeah. Go to sleep," Sam said, smiling slightly, and resisting the sudden urge to pat Dean on the head. Dean, when sick, easily took on the appearance – and attitude – of a cranky, tousled twelve-year-old – especially with his short hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. "I'll be right here."

Sam waited until Dean's eyes drifted shut again before reaching for the washcloth and the ice bucket on the nightstand. He'd filled it with tepid water several times over the course of the afternoon, and once again he wrung out the cloth to wipe it over Dean's face. One weak attempt to stop him was easily fended off; Dean's hand flopped back down on the bed, and after that a brief glint of hazel was the only reaction to Sam's ministrations, which told Sam his brother wasn't as recovered as he wanted Sam to believe.

After one last gentle swipe, a few softly grumbled words – some of which could have been either "thank you" or just as easily "fuck you" – had Sam's mouth curling up in a lopsided smirk. He put the cloth back in the bowl, thought about taking Dean's temperature again, but decided not to push his luck.

Dean _did _feel cooler to the touch, and for that Sam was wearily grateful. He hadn't lied – well, maybe about the placement of a certain thermometer – but his brother's temperature had risen with alarming swiftness, and when he was able to get a reading, he'd been shocked to find that it had spiked to just over 105.

He groaned quietly and dropped his head into his hands as he replayed the highlights of the day in his mind. What a day . . . .

As if the suddenly high temperature wasn't bad enough, Sam had really begun to worry when it sent Dean into a thrashing, moaning delirium, calling Sam's name in a frantic voice.

His brother shouldn't be this sick.

_Knife wound courtesy of a corpse. Fever. Probably fighting off infection._

His earlier off-hand remarks to Dean struck him like a blow.

_Should've paid more attention, should've caught it earlier. Dead man's blade. Tainted. Maybe even cursed. Holy water cleansed the wound, but didn't dispel the dark magic already affecting him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And careless. Dammit!_

Blanching, he'd quickly thumbed through John's journal, finding the faintly scribbled spell he thought – hoped – would work. Gathering what remained of their supply of holy water and the few necessary herbs, and with a bit more silent cursing, he began. Ingredients soon prepared, he softly read the ancient words of ritual healing over his brother as he wiped the sweating body down with the last of the holy water. Luckily, most of the feverfew and yarrow infusion he'd mixed did manage to find its way down Dean's throat; the rest wound up on the sheets.

He had rather expected the results of the healing to be immediate, for the dark taint to be dispelled in the same way as a spirit from a possessed body. He thought the fever would break, that Dean would wake up. But it turned out to be a long, grueling afternoon of trying to keep Dean cool – no holy water this time around – and from falling out of bed.

When Dean remained in the fever's grasp despite all his efforts, he wavered. He'd waited too long; the healing wasn't going to work . . . . Despairingly, he considered loading his brother into the car and heading for the nearest hospital. But late in the day, the raging fever finally broke as the ritual at last destroyed whatever dark magic had infected Dean. He sank into real sleep, exhausted from fighting the sickness and his nightmares. He lay quiet, the lines of pain smoothed from his face.

He was going to be all right.

Sam had sighed in relief, wiped Dean down again, and murmured a quiet _Thank God_. Not only for the fact that Dean was getting over the curse-induced fever, but also because he probably wouldn't have been able to wrestle a semiconscious, feverish Dean into the Impala. At least, not without suffering some bodily harm.

And then he had fallen asleep, too, listening to his brother's easier breaths, only to wake up again, to Dean's voice and hands, with the vision flaring like white heat in his mind.

He scrubbed at his eyes and raised his head, glancing at Dean's arm, all too aware of the wound beneath the dark shirt. Sam sighed, feeling his shoulders sag. He had his own share of scars from hunting, but Dean's had always bothered him more. Probably because too many of them were a direct result of Dean deliberately getting in the way of sharp claws or snarling teeth, nasty poltergeists or malevolent spirits, or anything that threatened Sam.

Dean had always been there. Seeing Dean hurt, in pain, was one major reason why Sam had hated hunting so much when growing up. He still remembered, with vivid, full-color horror, the first time Dean had been badly, bloodily injured on a hunt. And every time since. He still hated it, and he would never get used to it, not if he lived to be a hundred.

It was something he had tried not to think about, during those years at Stanford, all that time apart: Dean hurt. Dean bleeding. He'd seen unfamiliar scars tracing across Dean's skin while tending to new wounds these last few months, and it shook him, badly.

_Where were you? What happened? How many times did I almost lose you and not even know it? Why didn't you call, why didn't Dad tell me you were hurt? I would've come, even if it meant seeing Dad again, fighting again. I would've come. For you . . . . _

_Yeah, _a little insidious voice crept out to mock him, _but it's not exactly like you bothered_ _to punch in Dean's number on your cell phone in the last few years, either, did you? So don't use that as a pathetic reason to exonerate yourself. Coward. _Sam cringed, acknowledging the hit. Oh, he'd _thought _about it, looked at Dean's number plenty of times, but he'd never quite gotten up the nerve to actually do anything about it – even on those rare late nights he'd had a couple of beers too many, and started thinking about Dean and getting lonely for the sound of his big brother's voice . . . . Instead, he had just kept telling himself that Dean was all right, that Dad was all right, that one or the other would call if it were serious, if he needed to be there, with them . . . .

Lying to Jess and his friends, lying to himself. Yeah, he'd gotten pretty good at that.

He smoothed a tentative hand across Dean's matted, spiky hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered. When Dean's eyelids flickered open, his hand stilled. "Sorry," he whispered. "Go to sleep."

And he watched as Dean finally gave in, surrendering to sleep, those damn long eyelashes no longer fluttering, no longer trying to stay open.

He waited until he was sure Dean wouldn't stir before going to the other bed, where his brother had restlessly spent the day in unquiet, feverish tossing. He stripped the rumpled, sweated sheets from it and pitched them on the floor. Briefly considering leaving long enough to get a fresh set of bedding and more towels from the grandmotherly woman at the front desk, he flicked another glance Dean's way and changed his mind. Just the idea of Dean not in his sight for even a few minutes made him profoundly uneasy. Annoyed at his sudden paranoia, but not dismissing it, he shook his head and grabbed a notebook and pen from his bag. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he steeled himself to study the fragments of the visions yet again, grimly aware he had no choice but to try to figure this out.

Doodling idly, he sketched the van. It _had _been damn ugly, he recalled. Dean would sneer and mock it mercilessly. Some rusted out '70s model that probably had 200,000 miles on it, driven to hell and back again . . . . He frowned. License plate. Why couldn't he see the license plate? With Max's father, he'd seen the license plate . . . . _Max. _He swallowed and very carefully did not think about Max. Or shoving away a dresser with his mind while stuck in a locked closet. His glance slid over to Dean. _Stop it. Focus. _He found he'd been digging his fingernails into his palms, deep enough to hurt, and he had to force his fingers to unclench and loosen up.

The pen in his hand began to move again. Numbers and letters flickered in his mind's eye, changing, shifting. He scrawled an entire series of them down the page without conscious thought before stopping.

Huh. Maybe he _had _seen a license plate. Plates? Or partial addresses? Phone numbers?

Sam chewed on the pen as he stared at the column of figures.

Nothing. Except gritty eyes and the start of another headache slowly working its way up the back of his skull. He ignored it.

What about the kids? Wide eyes and soundless screams. Flashes of their terrified faces. He rubbed his forehead in frustration. Why the hell couldn't he see the driver?

He needed more to go on, more information, more images. But the thought of receiving another round of those frightening, horrific scenes only made the nausea rise again. The whole connection with Max, with the killing of Max's father and uncle, had been bad enough – now he was seeing not only children, innocents, in some terrible accident, but he and Dean were there as well. His previous vision of Dean had been Dean dying, brains and bright blood spattered grotesquely across a wall like some abstract painting. Dying at Max's hands, killed with Dean's own gun.

Sam shuddered. So far, his visions had only involved violent death. At this rate, how long could he remain sane? How long could this go on? How long _would _it go on? He looked over at Dean, sleeping peacefully.

_"Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I'm around."_

"Same here, bro," Sam murmured. "Works both ways." He picked up his pen again, turning back to study the combination of numbers and letters he'd written down.

At least that sense of near-crazed urgency wasn't coursing through him. Last time, with Max, he'd forced Dean up and out of the motel in the middle of the night, almost frenzied and overwhelmed by the need to simply _get _there, to stop what he'd seen.

But with Dean hurt . . . . There was no way he'd rush off anywhere, no matter what he saw, if it meant risking Dean.

The rumbling that started up in his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since morning, and anyway, breakfast had wound up in the toilet, and now it was – he glanced at his watch, after seven p.m. Still reluctant to leave Dean, Sam settled for crackers, room temperature Coke, and one of the apples from the stash of stuff he'd bought while out shopping earlier that day. Despite the hunger, he honestly didn't think his digestive system could handle much more at the moment.

A few minutes later, he tossed the apple core in the wastebasket and wondered if he should wake Dean up and get some more fluids into him. Or just let him sleep? But check his temperature and –

_Samuel._

Sam's head jerked around. He stared at Dean. His brother slept on.

"Dean?" he asked anyway, cautiously. He got up off the bed and studied his sleeping brother. Of course Dean hadn't said anything. And when had Dean _ever _called him Samuel?

_Samuel . . . ._

He spun around again. It was a whisper, a slight tickle at the back of his mind. Sam rubbed his neck as though he could feel something crawling there. He shuddered. It made him think of bugs, skittering down his spine, across his arms beneath the skin, and he slapped uselessly at his limbs. He stumbled over to Dean's bag and poked through it until he found the little EMF meter. Turning it on, he made a slow sweep of the room, and came up empty.

_Come to me, Samuel. I'm waiting. Waiting for you, boy._

"Get out of my head!" Sam ground out between his teeth. _Oh, God, visions, and now voices. Make it stop, make it stop, make it – _

"Sam?"

A groggy voice intruded, an _audible _voice.

_Come find me, Samuel. I can help you. I'm waiting . . . ._

– _stop! _

He shut his eyes tight, the EMF meter falling heedlessly to the floor as he flattened his palms over his ears in a futile effort to block out the subtle, writhing whisper. "Make it stop!" he shouted, just noticing that he had been screaming the words out loud, over and over. "Stop! Get out of my head, damn you!"

"Sammy!"

A pair of hands reached from behind him then, grasping his wrists with a strength he knew and trusted. He let Dean's hands enfold his own and guide them down, and he sagged back against his brother's chest when his knees threatened to give way. But he could feel Dean's arms trembling as his brother struggled to hold him, and scant seconds later they both fell together in a heap on the floor.

"Sam," Dean said, breathless and desperate, and Sam could hear the hitch in his voice, the pain he tried to smother. "Say something."

Sam cautiously raised his head and opened his eyes. His whole body went limp with relief. The voice was gone.

"I . . . ." He cleared his throat. "I'm okay," he said, still hoarse. He could feel Dean's heart thumping rapidly against his back, his brother's breathing quick and shallow.

"Uh huh." Dean's hold on him loosened slightly, but he gave Sam a light shake. "You always scream like a girl when you're all right."

Sam would have pulled away, but he had a feeling that if he did, Dean would fall over. So he stayed where he was, moving just enough so that he wasn't leaning all of his weight into his brother.

"It was . . . ."

"What, Sam? A nightmare? Dude, come on, talk to me here."

"A voice," he said, faintly. "In . . . my head." He was glad he had his back to Dean; he really didn't want to see his brother's expression right nowVisions. Voices. What kind of monstrosity was he turning into? But then Dean shifted, turning, and brought them face-to-face, and all he saw, besides pallor and strain and dark-smudged eyes, was worry – not fear or revulsion at his latest freakshow psychic revelation.

Dean's hands on Sam's shoulders held firm. "Were you dreaming?"

Sam shook his head. "Wasn't asleep."

"Vision? Sam, what?"

Another head shake. "No, not a vision. Just . . . a voice," he repeated, looking up at Dean. "In my head."

"What did it say?" Dean asked, eyes searching Sam's.

Sam swallowed, shuddering. "It – he – knew my name," he said, feeling the horror of it again. The invasion. "Told me to find him . . . that he was waiting."

"Waiting?" Dean gave an annoyed grunt. "Shit, Sammy, he can wait all he wants, I don't care who or what the hell he or it is. He can't have you."

"He said . . . he said he could help me."

Dean snorted. "Help you with what? 'Psychics R Us' hotline? Yeah, right. Some guy, some _thing _gets inside your head, says he's waiting for you. Uh huh. That's really helpful. Hope you told him to take a flying fuck, Sammy."

Some of Sam's shaking eased. Trust Dean to be both matter-of-fact and sarcastic – or at least acting that way – about Sam suddenly hearing voices in his head . . . . He dropped his face against his upraised knees, and felt Dean's hand on the back of his neck.

"Hey, geek boy, come on. Let's get you up off the floor, huh?"

Sam nodded, looking up. Dean lightly ruffled his hair, and somehow got the both of them to their feet and shuffled over to the closest bed. Dean plunked him down and joined him, biting back a soft groan that Sam was pretty sure he hadn't been meant to hear.

"So," Dean said, arm cradled, lying flat on his back, feet still on the floor. "You okay?"

He sounded casual, nonchalant, and Sam really wasn't fooled for a minute.

Sitting up against the headboard, legs stretched out behind Dean's head, Sam shoved fingers through his hair and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The sensation of bugs crawling under his skin was gone, but his headache had taken a turn for the worse.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, I'm . . . okay." He peeled his hands away and let out a deep shuddering breath. The voice was gone. Only the memory of it remained, echoing in his skull. His shoulders twitched. Oh, God, he was going to be sick again . . . . He swallowed. And risked a glance over at Dean.

Dean appeared remarkably alert and lucid – even if he was a bit shaky looking. Pale, his cheeks slightly flushed, and hazel eyes glittering just a little too brightly.

"Shit," Sam said wearily, slumping lower. "I mean, what the hell, Dean, am I a radio antenna now? A freakin' cell phone tower just picking up voices out of the air? What's next, huh?"

"Oh, I dunno," Dean deadpanned. "But it might come in handy when we can't get wi-fi in those Podunk cornfield towns out in the middle of nowhere."

Despite himself, Sam gave a huff of laughter. So there was a bit of manic hysteria trickling through; he didn't care. Didn't he have the right to be hysterical when a strange voice popped into his head and called him by name?

"Well, crap," he sighed, the humor fleeing quickly. He tried to keep the hysteria under wraps. But . . . . "He knew my _name,_ Dean," he said forcefully. "He was _in my head."_

"What'd he sound like?"

Sam shot him a dark look.

"No, I mean it." Dean gave him one of those familiar back-of-the-hand pats on his leg. "Come on, Sam, concentrate here. Young, old, what? You sure it was a guy?"

"Why aren't you freaking out more?" Sam burst out, staring at him, unable to stand it.

"Oh, come on. You get visions that come true, you move heavy furniture with your Brainiac mind – but are pathetically unable to bend just a damn spoon, you little wuss – why the hell should I freak out now?"

Sam studied him with narrowed eyes. He'd always been able to read Dean; after so many years, it was second nature. So maybe he'd had to relearn a little, regain that easy familiarity, after meeting up again; and though Dean's face may have altered in subtle, dangerous ways (a little older, a little harder), he was still _Dean. _And Sam _knew_ Dean. Now his brother gazed back at him, and Sam wondered if Dean was aware how much he sometimes gave away – if only to him – merely by not trying to give anything away at all.

Not that Sam was about to call him on it. He needed any edge he could get. And for some reason, Dean really didn't seem to be freaked. Worried, sure. Like that would ever change. But not freaked. Huh. How freaky was _that? _

"Maybe you're not freaking out because you're really delirious with fever and think you're dreaming," Sam finally muttered, reaching forward with one advantageously long arm and laying his hand across Dean's forehead. "Hm. Cooler. Guess you'll live."

"Dude!" Dean smacked the hand away. "Cut that out! I'm fine."

"Right. You're fine, and so am I. Oh, yeah, except for that part where I have some strange guy leaving messages in my head." Sam rolled his eyes. "We're in great shape."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." Dean's eyebrows had risen practically to his hairline. "Such sarcasm does not become you."

"Guess I've been hangin' around you too long."

"Well, that's certainly to your benefit, wouldn't you say?"

Sam gave a weak laugh. "Oh, yeah, how could I fail to notice that? Sorry."

"Now." Dean poked Sam in the leg. "What'd the guy sound like?"

As he opened his mouth to answer, Sam realized that his pulse had stopped pounding in his ears, and the squeezing pressure in his lungs had eased. Since it would only embarrass Dean, he had to firmly clamp down on the fond, knowing smile he wanted to direct Dean's way when he figured out how sneakily his brother had distracted him.

"Definitely male," he started, thoughtfully, trying to remain detached and clinical about it. "Older. No accent that I could tell, but maybe voices in your head don't have accents . . . ." He shrugged. "That's about it. He just called me 'Samuel,' and that he was waiting. He could help me. End of conversation."

Dean was chewing on his lower lip. "Huh. Weird. Sounds kinda kinky, Sam, like some pervert trying to pick up kids in an Internet chat room or something."

"That's . . . kind of how it felt, actually," Sam said with a growing expression of disgust, feeling creeped out all over again. "Gross."

"Do I need to start limiting your online time, kiddo? Check out which Web sites you're lookin' at?" The eyebrow was up again, in deadpan innocence.

"Only if I need to check out your dates first," Sam responded dryly.

"Ouch, Sammy." Dean clutched at his chest. "You wound me."

"I doubt that. And it's not 'Sammy.'"

"You'll _always _be Sammy." The quick grin disappeared, and Dean turned serious. "Look, if that spooky bastard calls again, hang up on him. Shut him out. Whatever. Or I'll have a few words of my own to say to him." He smothered a yawn, eyelids blinking heavily. "Crap," he groused. "Why am I so friggin' tired? All I've done is sleep all day . . . ."

"You need it. You lost a lot of blood." Sam got stiffly up off the bed, suddenly restless.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, headache's hanging on, is all. Think I'll go get some air. Pick up some fresh sheets and towels. Find something to eat. You'll be all right?"

"Hell, yeah." Dean snorted, rolling his eyes. "Bring me a cheeseburger."

"How about chicken soup?"

"Cheeseburger. Or don't bother coming back."

Sam found himself fighting a smile. "Maybe. If you behave yourself."

"Dude, no chicken soup. You'll be wearing it."

"We'll see about that," Sam said, no longer caring if the smile slipped out. "But in the meantime, start with this." He handed over a bottle of water that was sitting on the nightstand. "Drink."

"Yeah, all right," Dean grumbled. Propped up on one elbow, he took the bottle. "Let's blow this place tomorrow, Sam." He yawned again and shook his head. "These walls are makin' me twitchy. Too much green in here."

"You're right about that," Sam said on his way out. "Kinda makes me think of dead frogs or something."

And closed the door on Dean's oddly startled expression.

xxxxx

Dean slept badly again that night, aching and restless, but at least by being awake for most of it he could listen for any sounds of distress coming from his little brother. But Sam, it appeared, had completely zoned out, and showed no overt signs of nightmares or visions or alien voices calling to him to join them in a crop circle somewhere to get beamed up to the mother ship.

Thankfully, despite waking near dawn with a stiffened shoulder, aching in every muscle and sore in all his joints like an arthritic ninety-year-old, he was more or less clear-headed, as the fever had at last fled completely sometime during the night. While he was just a little unsteady on his feet, and felt only about as strong as a wet kitten, it was still an improvement over yesterday.

Since Sam was still a rolled-up bundle of blankets, Dean grabbed the bathroom first. He felt gritty and sticky and in need of a shave. A hot shower worked wonders on aching muscles, and he only turned off the water when Sam, obviously up and at 'em, banged on the door, hollering to ask if he needed help. Dean had enough strength to yell a derisive reply to that ridiculous question. But between not having eaten much in the last day, and the sauna-like warmth of the bathroom, he felt a bit light-headed. He managed to shave and get half-dressed without folding up on the floor. So far, so good. The stitches, which he'd kept mostly dry, pulled a bit, and he grunted as he ran his fingertips over them before dragging on an almost clean shirt. Just one more scar to add to the collection . . . . He had to sit down for a minute after that, closing his eyes against the sudden dizziness, and dropped his head in his hands.

A few stitches. A quick fever, come and gone. It wasn't that bad, not really. _C'mon, Dean, you've had worse. Suck it up and show Sammy you're all right. He doesn't need to be worrying about you, not with all that other crap messing with his head. _He took several slow, deep breaths, and straightened up. Yeah, okay, he could do this – not like he was dying here . . . .

But even if he'd been on his deathbed – _yeah, been there, done that – _he'd make sure to hightail it out of this place and put several hundred miles between them and Max's home sweet home by nightfall. They'd only stayed as close as they had for a few days because of the rumors they'd quickly come across surrounding the revenant sightings in a nearby cemetery. But now . . . no reason to hang around. He might not be psychic, but he'd always trusted his own innate sixth sense and gut instincts. And right now they were frankly screaming at him to get the hell out of Dodge.

He shakily got up and made sure the tremors had disappeared before opening the door. Sam looked anxious and ready to pounce, but Dean waved him off.

"Bathroom's all yours. I think there's still some hot water. Maybe."

A withering stare as Sam stalked past him was all the response he got, and Dean grinned unrepentantly back at him.

Sam soon emerged from his turn in the bathroom. Dean looked up from where he sat on his bed, packing away the weapons, and quickly checked out his little brother before dropping his gaze back to his task. Sam appeared all right, for the most part; maybe a little pale, and the frown line was already in evidence. Maybe just a headache . . . .

"Sleep all right?" Dean kept his voice light. _Any nightmares, visions, whacked-out crazies leaving forwarding addresses in your head? Anything you're not telling me? _

"You mean," he replied acidly, "did I have the usual demon-infested nightmare? More migraine-inducing visions of people I don't even know dying in horrible ways? Hearing voices and wondering if I've finally lost my mind?" Sam turned away. "Is that what you want to know?"

"Uh, well . . . yeah." Dean tipped his head to watch Sam, and went stock-still with a knife in his hand. "So?"

Sam sighed, and seemed to deflate a little. "I slept fine, believe it or not. No visions or voices. Nothing." He gave a bitter laugh. "Go figure."

"Well, good. Glad to hear it." He slid the knife back into its leather sheath and put it in the bag, feeling Sam's eyes on him.

"What about you? Get some sleep?"

Dean shrugged, glanced up.

Sam frowned, the line between his eyes deepening.

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Uh huh. But that doesn't answer the question."

"I'm _fine."_

His reflexes obviously hadn't recovered, because the hand Sam shot out got past his guard much too easily, and planted on his forehead before he could move.

"Dammit, Sam!" He smacked at Sam's hand. "Will you just knock it off with the touchy-feely crap? I'm fine. Fever's gone. Enough already!" In vain, Dean tried to move out of Sam's long reach.

"Huh," Sam said, paying no attention to Dean's efforts – his hand was back on Dean's brow. "You _do _feel back to normal. Maybe you're right." He finally seemed satisfied and took his hand away.

Dean scowled. "Of course I'm right. I'm older, I'm always right. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Sam just rolled his eyes, and added, "Well, you look awful. You're still recovering. Roll up your sleeve and let me see your arm."

"Aw, Sammy . . . ." Dean was not in the mood for Sam's fussing. "Let it go, all right? There's nothing wrong –"

"Shut up, all right?" Sam nearly shouted, his hands bunched into fists. "Something dark and nasty was burning you up, and I had to banish it. So quit bitching, shut up, and just roll up your damn sleeve!"

"Huh?" Dean sat up straighter and stared at Sam. "Did I miss something?"

"No," Sam muttered. "_I_ did."

"Sam, what are you talking about?"

"Tainted blade," Sam said, terse.

Oh. No wonder Sammy was so ticked. Figuring it would save time, Dean shut his mouth and rolled up his sleeve.

Sam eyed him, as though suspicious of such unaccustomed compliance, but didn't say anything as he took Dean's arm in careful hands and angled it closer to the bedside lamp.

"Looks better. Swelling's down," he murmured. "Probably take the stitches out in a week or so."

"Yeah, something to look forward to in case there's nothing on TV that night." He gently removed his arm from Sam's light grasp and concentrated on rolling down his shirtsleeve again. "Um, thanks, Sammy." He busied himself with stowing away the last of the weapons.

"You're welcome."

He cocked his head, looked up. "Moment over? Can we go now?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean smirked.

It took only a few minutes to pack their bags and load them in the Impala. Dean bid a silent farewell to the dead-frog-green room, and they hit the diner next door for breakfast. Dean poked at his eggs, surprisingly not hungry, and after about three bites gave up. He stuck with coffee, ignoring Sam's disapproving stare for as long as he could before compromising, grudgingly, with some orange juice and an ibuprofen chaser.

He felt better outside, in the morning air and the road beckoning. He turned his face up to the sun for a brief moment, eyes closed, then almost knocked heads with Sam when he turned back.

Sam. With his hand stretched out.

Dean ignored the silent demand for the car keys, and walked around to the driver's side.

"Move your ass, Sam, or I'm takin' off without ya."

"And where is it we're going?"

"Don't know yet. Don't care. Away from here." He paused. "What about you? Any vibes?"

Sam shrugged, grimacing as he leaned across the hood, hand still out. "I got nothing. Wait and see, I guess."

"Well, then it doesn't matter, okay?"

"Okay, but – dude, come on, let me drive."

Dean opened the door and slid carefully into the driver's seat. "I'm good. Let's go already, huh? Just – _get in the car, Sam."_

That earned him a disgruntled sigh along with the predictable eye roll as Sam yanked open the other door, almost flinging his lanky frame inside. Dean carefully hid the smirk. Sometimes Sam was just so . . . thirteen.

Dean settled his sunglasses on his nose, cranked up the music, and turned in a general westward heading, deciding on a whim to stick to quiet, less-traveled back roads rather than the interstate. There was nowhere they had to be at the moment, and he wasn't in a mood to get there fast. He noted with relief that Sam wisely kept his mouth shut about him driving one-handed. Focusing on the road, and shoving away the grey weight of fatigue that the coffee had merely blunted slightly, he disregarded Sam for a few miles until the repeated sideways glances finally got under his skin.

"What?" he snapped, tilting his head to meet one of Sam's looks.

Sam stared straight ahead. "Nothing." His knee bounced.

"Right."

The silence stretched out between them. Dean shifted his right arm, trying to ease the tightening pain, and felt Sam's glance settle on him again.

"Want me to drive for a while?"

"No."

Trees, trees, and more trees, and another thirty-seven green mileposts flashed past. Dean tried to pop in another cassette, fumbling and cursing, and then Sam's hand closed on his, gently taking the tape and putting it in the player without a word before turning the volume down. Even as Dean opened his mouth to protest, Sam turned wide eyes on him and looked suddenly, impossibly young, and scared.

"Why aren't you freaking out more?" Sam asked, repeating the question from the night before.

"Huh?"

"You're not freaking out. Or are you just pretending not to freak out so _I_ won't freak out?"

"Sam, what should I be freaking out over now?"

"Voices in my head, Dean! Or haven't you been paying attention here?" Sam's voice rose, drowning out the music.

"Dude, yeah, I noticed. You had a guy talking to you in your head. Just once. It's hardly your fault."

"What if it is? What if it's not real? What if it's some sort of weird side effect of . . . all this . . . psychic crap? Maybe I'm really going insane and I don't even know it!" Sam thumped both fists resoundingly on the dashboard, then flung back his head as though he wanted to pound it into the back of the seat. "I'm crazy!" he shouted at the roof. "I'm just a goddamn freak!"

_Shit. _Dean rubbed his hand across his forehead, only now fully aware of the ache that had crept up behind his eyes without him noticing. What with generally feeling like total shit, he really wasn't in any kind of shape for this kind of conversation. But Sammy . . . .

"Look," Dean began, dividing his fragmenting concentration between the road and his brother. _"You're not a freak._ Well, I mean, yeah, you are, we _both _are, Sam, but not like you think. We're freaks but come on, we're not _freaks." _His hand strayed back to massage his forehead again. "We've seen plenty of weird and freaky shit in the last twenty years, and you are not it. If anybody would know, it'd be me. Who used to change your diapers, huh? And smear your chubby little baby face with applesauce and strained peas before you learned to do it yourself? I taught you how to tie your shoes, and how to read. You're too damn smart sometimes, and a total geek, but come on, Sammy, you're my _little brother,_ and I think maybe I would have noticed if there was something not quite right about you. You are not crazy, all right? There is nothing about you, nothing you could do that would freak me out."

He risked a glance at Sam after this lengthy speech, suddenly embarrassed. Sam stared back, and Dean firmly turned his attention to the view out the front windshield again. He pushed on, trying to brazen it out. "However, if you suddenly develop an uncontrollable passion for Britney Spears, well, Sam, then I just might have to kill you."

A noise somewhere between a choked off laugh and a hiccup emerged from Sam's mouth.

"That could only mean I'm possessed, not crazy."

"Well, in that case, I'll do an exorcism. I have had some experience at that."

"Promise?"

It was the voice and the look Sam had given him since age five, and it meant that Sam knew Dean would make a promise and always keep it because Dean was Sam's big brother and always made everything all right.

It was a look Dean had never been able to say "no" to.

"Promise," Dean answered, knowing he was promising something else, but not quite sure what, and if it was a promise to keep Sam safe, well, that was hardly new, was it? That was a promise he'd made both to himself and to his father a long, long time ago. "I promise, Sammy."

Sam let out a long, slow sigh, and he relaxed into his usual pose in the seat. "Thanks," he breathed.

"Yeah," was all Dean said. It was all he needed to say. Except Sam was still staring at him. "What?"

"Will you pull over and let me drive now?"

"Maybe later," Dean said firmly, turning his full attention to the two-lane blacktop once again.

"Dean . . . ."

Dean blinked as his vision chose that moment to waver, along with the Impala, and he let out a hissed curse as he swerved back into the right lane. He swore again as he realized he'd unthinkingly used his right arm to help steady the wheel, and felt the sweat break out on his forehead.

"Pull over," Sam said again, patiently. "Please?"

Dean just nodded reluctantly, wearily, and did as he asked.

Knowing he was sulking but not caring, he took his place in the passenger seat. He turned slightly toward Sam to avoid leaning his arm against the door, and despite himself almost instantly fell asleep in the cradling comfort of the Impala, knowing Sam had his back.

A gentle shake roused him and he woke groggily to see that Sam had pulled them off onto what was little more than a wide spot in the road, but room enough for a bar and grill, an ancient gas station, and a convenience store. They joined some locals and a crowd of truckers in the restaurant, and ordered lunch.

He didn't really have much of an appetite, but he made an effort, if only to keep Sam happy. And quiet. Though he hated to admit it, the fever had taken quite a toll; he'd only managed as well as he had so far that morning due to sheer force of will, but the continuing dull throb in his arm and the relentless fatigue conspired to grind him down.

So he stared with disinterest at his corned beef sandwich, picking at it once or twice, and half-heartedly glanced through a local newspaper, scanning for anything nearby that might need their particular kind of attention.

"Nothing," he said, with a tired sigh, tossing the paper on the table.

"Well, let's pretend we're on vacation," Sam suggested, stirring a French fry intently through some ketchup. "I wouldn't mind a couple of days of just, you know, being lazy."

_You mean, you think I need a couple of days to rest and heal up. Yeah, real smooth, Sammy. Huh. Can't say I mind, either . . . . Not to mention that you've had it rough lately, too, Sam._

"Yeah, okay," he said, flicking his eyes up to Sam's. "A couple of days."

Sam flashed him a smile, the relief obvious. "Okay."

Dean ignored the rest of his lunch, and ignored Sam noticing. As they walked out, Sam got a firm grip on his good arm, and Dean found himself futilely protesting and squirming against his brother's greater height and strength. Sam steered him over to the Impala and maneuvered him once again into the passenger seat of the car.

"Dammit, Sam!" he snarled, shrugging off the hand Sam had on his shoulder. "Stop treating me like I'm a goddamn five-year-old!"

"Someone needs a nap," Sam said, eyebrows raised. "Since you don't know where we're going, I'll just keep going that way, all right? Go back to sleep, Dean."

"Smartass," Dean mumbled, suddenly shivering, eyes already closing. He felt the weight of Sam's jacket tucked around him then, but he was too tired and grateful to snark about it. A light rain had begun to fall as they pulled out of the parking lot, and Dean drifted off to the hypnotic, rhythmic clack and swish of the Impala's windshield wipers.

Something not quite right penetrated his senses an indeterminable time later. He started to shift, blurry eyes opening and focusing with difficulty, when a loud crash and rumble had him swearing and jerking fully awake.

"What the –"

"Thunderstorm," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, wiping a hand across his slightly sticky eyes. "I noticed." He pushed himself upright and looked out into an unnatural darkness. A flick of a glance at his watch made it all of 5:15, but it could have been the middle of the night. The rain drove hard against the car, and he could barely even see the white dividing line on the blacktop in the headlights' beams.

"Thought we'd stop as soon as I saw somewhere," Sam said, squinting into the darkness as he drove slowly through the downpour. "Or hell, even pull over and wait a while."

Then he flinched, and Dean saw his whole body stiffen, his eyes growing wide. He put one hand to his head and let out a choked gasp.

"Sam? Sam!"

In a split second, Dean lunged for the steering wheel even as Sam groaned and collapsed over Dean's arm. Wrestling with both the car on the slick road and his brother's sudden weight, Dean caught only a flash of the other vehicle's lights as it came at them too fast, around a bend. Dean shoved Sam back and kicked his foot off the gas, wrenched the wheel and knew he wouldn't make it. The roadside ditch, or the other car.

He chose the ditch.

Even as he tried to steer, he braced his brother as they slid and careened, the other car fishtailing the opposite way. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the sky for an instant, searing his eyes. He glimpsed wild storm-tossed branches and rain sheeting sideways, and with a sickening lurch they went off the road. The far side of the ditch rose up to meet them, and Dean's head met the dashboard.

He heard a soft moan from Sam, now leaning heavily against his back. He thought he might have heard the sound of a car door slamming, but it was hard to hear anything over the pounding rain and the continual barrage of thunder overhead. Dean couldn't lift his head from the dashboard for some reason, and he felt a warm trickle slide down his face.

Then even the rain and the thunder faded away, and left Dean with nothing but darkness.

TBC . . .


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Something different: a short chapter. Solely for dramatic purposes.

(And, because I was on vacation, came home, and then suffered some writer's block. Also, sadly, I'm basically a very lazy writer, and it's taking me a long time to get back into this. Sorry!)

Thanks to Angela ever so much for the wonderful beta! Twice. If anything funky still remains it's all my fault 'cause I tinkered yet again . . . .

xxxxx

Chapter 3

_The pain struck without warning, out of nowhere. Familiar pain. He heard a moan, and realized it had come from his own mouth. His eyes squeezed shut, his hands went to his head, and the vision exploded behind his eyes._

_Blood and fire in the dark. He could taste the blood, feel the heat of the flames. Hear the screams. _

_He didn't want to open his eyes. He knew what he would see. But he turned, and against his will, he looked. _

_Dean lay propped against him. Blood was running freely from a wound in his head, above his eye, and trailing down his face. It soaked his shirt from unseen wounds. He looked oddly peaceful, asleep, but Sam knew with certain horror that he was dead. There was too much blood for it to be otherwise._

_In his grief, he reached for his brother, wanting only to hold him, but suddenly Dean was gone, snatched away into the dark. Laughter, mocking and amused at his pain, echoed around him. _

"_Dean!" he screamed. "Damn you, give my brother back! He's not yours to keep!"_

_The laughter rolled over him. _

_"Dean!"_

_His cry fell unheard._

_His brother was gone._

xxxxx

"No!"

The pain was a knife behind his eyes, in his heart.

He thought he screamed it, but the word was only a whimper. "Noooo . . . ."

He couldn't move. He was trapped.

_Where was Dean? _

"No," he said again, a mere whisper. His head spun with darkness and horror and confusion. He reached for his anchor, his lodestone. "Dean? Oh, God, where are you – "

_Rain and wind, thunder rolling above. And the pain burst inside his head, blotting out all thought, and he could see nothing but fire._

His frantic breaths sounded harsh and loud, and his chest hurt. Asleep and dreaming. He must be. He had to wake up. Now. But . . . where was Dean?

A weight lay partially across his legs, preventing movement; he had fallen forward, leaning into something warm.

_Wake up, Sam! _

He tried to obey the command in the firm voice, he really did. Gasping, he finally succeeded in dragging his eyes open, barely, squinting through the pain that still lanced through his skull. His sight blurred. One shaking hand reached up and roamed over familiar leather and short hair. And a warm stickiness.

"Dean? God, Dean –"

Straightening up as best he could, he groaned, overwhelmed with the rush of relief that swept through him. Dean. Half on the passenger seat, half on Sam. Doing an impersonation of an airbag. But he was here, right here . . . . Sam hadn't lost him.

Lightning danced across the darkened sky, hot wires that sizzled the ground and flickered madly above the treetops. Like flames, like fire. He tasted blood in his mouth, swallowed, realized it came from his nose, and dizzily leaned forward over Dean's shoulder again, his senses reeling.

Memory slammed back with a vengeance.

A raging storm. Dean asleep in the passenger seat, rousing just before . . . . And the vision had hit without warning, out of nowhere while he'd been driving, and then there had been nothing but the blinding pain.

Sam sucked in a breath, swiped at the blood still trickling out of his nose, and shifted cautiously to crane his head nearer the window to look out into the dark. The car sat motionless, angled downward, leaning almost precariously to the right. The brilliant flashes of continuous lightning showed them sitting in a ditch.

Oh, shit, he'd landed them in a fucking ditch, in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm, and Dean was out cold. _Shit, shit, shit._ _ Good job, Sam. Next time let Dean drive, even if he is sick . . . . _

Carefully, he reached to ease Dean away from his awkward, wedged position between Sam and the steering wheel and propped him against his shoulder. With slightly trembling hands he shut off the ignition, felt the engine throb into silence, and turned to his brother.

Dean hadn't moved or shown any sign of waking. Sam's breath hitched in his throat. The blood he'd felt on Dean's forehead had since trickled down the pale features, glinting black in the weird light of the storm.

"Come on, Dean," he said, panic growing, his heart leaping in his chest. "Wake up, man."

_Wake up before this goes any further, please. Wake up, wake up, wake up._

He put shaking fingers under Dean's jaw.

The driver's-side door flew open. Rain and wind poured in to batter at him. He bent over Dean to shield him, blinking away the water that ran down his face as he stretched out an arm and fumbled for the door handle.

And yelped, jerking back in surprise.

An older man in a hooded yellow rain slicker peered inside the car.

"Hey, there, son, you all right?" he bellowed. "I saw you go in the ditch! Came to see if you needed a hand."

Sam sagged. "It's – it's my brother," he said, teeth beginning to chatter. "Please, help me. He's hurt, he won't wake up –"

"Easy, son, just take it easy," the other man soothed. "I'll have you boys outta there in a jiffy, don't you worry now. Let's get you out first, all right? Looks like that other door is jammed but good, so you'll both have to slide out this side."

As the man continued his coaxing litany, Sam felt a hand under his elbow. The instinctive protest died on his lips, but he couldn't help Dean by sitting here in a ditch.

"Come on, that's right." The hand gripped his elbow a little tighter.

He shook off the elbow and carefully eased Dean down to lie sideways on the seat, one hand gently cradling his brother's head. He let his hand linger a moment. Despite the blood still sluggishly oozing from Dean's head,a pulse beat strong and steady; the reassuring thump loosened something in Sam's chest and he let out a shaky breath.

_Head wounds are always messy. He'll be okay; just get him out of here and get him warm. _

God, Dean so did not need this – not after the last forty-eight hours . . . .

"Get you patched up soon, bro," he murmured with a final pat on Dean's cheek. "Hang in there." He caught sight of the jacket he'd tucked around Dean when they'd left the restaurant. It had fallen away to land on the floor between the seats, and he quickly snagged it up to drape it over Dean's shoulders. Then he maneuvered his way out of the car, away from Dean's limp, unmoving body, into the pouring rain to stand unsteadily on the downward slope of the ditch.

Once outside, Sam's hair was instantly plastered flat against his skull, and water ran in unceasing rivulets down his face. Shivering, he swayed for just a second, then bent back in far enough to reach his still unresponsive brother.

"Okay," he said, over his shoulder to the other man. "I can get him, if you can help . . . ."

"Go on, son." The man gestured behind him, shouting over the thunder. "Get outta this rain, all right? You're not lookin' so good yourself. I can bring him."

"But –"

"Go on," he repeated. "I'm parked behind ya there."

A nudge on his back got him out of the way, and Sam stumbled for a step or two on the slippery grass. Regaining his footing, he straightened, but still stood somewhat hunched against the lashing rain, and turned to look where the man gestured. For the first time he caught a quick glimpse of another vehicle on the road several yards in front of him, parked haphazardly across both lanes, headlights slashing through the rain.

Even in the erratic light of the storm he could see it. A battered orange minivan. Children's faces stared at him through the windshield.

With a startled curse he swung his gaze back to the old man, and Dean lying too still, too pale, on the front seat of the Impala. He staggered.

"Dean –"

Then the man grasped his elbow again, a flare of pain shot through his head, and everything in his world suddenly went black.

xxxxx

Sam drifted back to awareness slowly. He emerged from a confusion of dreams and crashing memories, images and flickers of what-might-be into a state of uneasy half-waking.

Overriding all else was the instinctive – and alarming – knowledge that he was alone, wherever he was. From twenty-odd years of sharing rooms with his brother, often sharing a bed, he knew the sounds of Dean breathing, of Dean asleep, always aware of his presence on some weird intuitive level.

He struggled to put the pieces together.

Dean had been with him, in the car. _Oh, God, the car._ The crash in the storm. The man in the raincoat.

The orange van.

_Oh, Jesus Christ. The van. The kids. Dean. Fire and blood and . . . ._

"Dean?" His brother's name came out of his mouth in a choked whisper. "Dean!"

His eyes snapped open.

Gathering his scattered senses, a cursory investigation showed him to be lying in a bed, alone (he already knew) in a small room. A glance under the covers confirmed the fact that he'd been stripped down to his briefs. _The hell? _He shoved himself up on his elbows. His clothes hung neatly folded over a chair next to the bed, and when he reached for his t-shirt, it proved to be dry. He pulled it on over his head, pushed the blankets aside and quickly finished dressing.

He still had his watch; it read 8:04 a.m. As he tied up his bootlaces, a further quick scope of the room made it out to be plain, even simpler than their usual one-night motel stops. Dark paneling, thin curtains on the window, functional, sturdy furniture. It felt unused, with a slightly musty, dusty smell. A summer cabin, maybe, closed up all winter . . . . The view out the one window – closed – showed no sign of the terrible thunderstorm from . . . last night? Sunshine and blue sky, from what he could see.

And no sign of Dean. He'd been bleeding, Sam remembered with an uneasy jolt. He had seen the blood snaking its way down Dean's face, even in the crazy lightning. He hadn't moved; he hadn't woken up. And Sam had just left him there, in the car, bleeding.

While he, for some reason, had simply passed out, leaving the old man to help Dean.

But he felt fine now, didn't he; no aches anywhere, not even a reminder of the excruciating pain that came courtesy of the visions . . . . He looked down at his hands. Clean. No blood. He'd wiped blood off Dean's forehead, warm and sticky. It had smeared across his fingers . . . .

_Dean and blood, fire and a raging storm. _

He grimly pushed the images to one side, and with an ever-increasing sense of urgency, decided it was time to find some answers.

Time to find Dean. He took two steps over to the door. And abruptly stopped. The doorknob rattled, as though being unlocked, and then the door opened with a slow, squeaky groan.

Tensing, his eyes darted around the room, looking for a weapon, for _anything, _because shit, he didn't have a gun tucked into his jeans, not even a knife, and where the hell was he, and where was Dean . . . . He instinctively shifted his feet and hands into a defensive position, and edged toward the inward-swinging door, ready to make a grab or throw a punch.

A soft step, the door opened wider, and a hand appeared.

Sam rose on his toes, flexing his fingers.

A face came into view, peering into the room.

"Well, 'bout time you woke up, boy!" The man beamed at him. "You was out like a light last night. Thought I'd better make sure you were still with us."

Sam let out a breath and eased his hands down to his side.

"Yeah," he said, finding his voice, trying to bring up a smile for his roadside rescuer. "Yeah, I'm awake."

The man walked a couple of paces farther into the room, stopped, and studied him for a moment, hands on hips, head to one side. "You're lookin' better this mornin'. How ya feelin'?"

Sam studied him right back. He was pale. Everything about him was pale: his skin, his thinning, blondish-grey hair, and his washed-out blue eyes. At a guess, Sam would've put him somewhere in his fifties, utterly nondescript, ordinary in every way, right down to his faded jeans, flannel shirt, and scuffed-up boots.

Except the hair was rising on the back of Sam's neck. Both hands unconsciously clenched into fists once more.

"I'm . . . okay," Sam said, before the silence dragged into complete awkwardness. He took a half-step back, keeping his voice level. "Thanks for stopping last night. Where is this?" He gestured at the room. "What happened after I got out of the car?" A deep breath then, to try to offset the sudden tightness in his throat, the nauseating twist in his gut, and he had to force the next words out past dry lips. "Where's my brother?"

The genial smile faded.

"You don't remember? None of it?" The pale eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, you was pretty out of it, I guess."

Sam swallowed, tasting bile in his throat. "What happened?" He wiped sweaty palms on his jeans. "Tell me."

"You got out of the car all right, then I think you just passed out – you took a good knock on the noggin, son. I got you over to my van, and I went back for your . . . brother, but . . . ."

_No. No, nonononono. Don't say it. Don't say it, please. Don't make it real._

"He wasn't breathin' no more, son," the man went on, far too calmly. "I tried to get him out, but there wasn't nothin' I could do. An' then that car . . . well, she just sparked and plumb burst into a big ol' ball of fire right there practically in front of me. Ain't nothin' left. I'm sorry, son. Truly."

He heard the words, but they were just noise. There was a loud roaring in his ears. The room was too small, and there wasn't enough air. It felt like he'd been sucker punched in the chest. He swayed and stumbled backwards into the bed, falling bonelessly onto it.

"No," he said hoarsely, shaking his head in fierce denial. "No. He was all right. He was bleeding, but he was all right. I felt him breathing." Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and painful, and he thought he was going to be sick. His voice rose. "You're lying. You're wrong. I _saw _him. He wasn't . . . he wasn't . . . ." His throat closed up, and he dropped his head into his hands, not wanting this stranger to see the depths of his grief, when all he really wanted to do was crawl into a dark corner to howl in rage and pain.

Dean. His brother. Taken by fire. Just like their mom, like Jess.

_Dean. Oh, God, blood and fire. Just like I saw it. I saw it, and I couldn't stop it. What's the point of this so-called gift if I can't even save my own brother? I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. . . . _

Dimly aware of the other man moving forward, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right, son, trust me."

The voice smoothed out, losing its "aw shucks" accent. Sam's head jerked up, and he looked straight into the eyes of his erstwhile savior. Still pale, but with a strange glint in them he hadn't noticed before.

"Everything will be just fine." The grip on his shoulder tightened as the man smiled. "Samuel."

xxxxx

(Insert seven-minute CW commercial break here.)

TBC . . .


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Well, if anybody out there is still actually reading this…My deepest apologies for the lengthy delay. Angsty Sam did not cooperate, and it took a fair amount of whacking to beat that boy into shape. (Don't imagine that I enjoyed it, either, so stop thinking that.)

A big "thank you" and a hearty round of applause to my friends Angela, Rhiannon, and Kati, without whom this chapter never would've been finished. So thanks, you guys, for above and beyond the call of duty, variously, in betas, feedback, comments, handholding, poking, reading the damn thing through more than once – and listening to my numerous wails of "But I miss Dean!"

Thanks for all the reviews! I believe that when I posted the last chapter, ffnet was having one of its wonky days, and story alerts and such weren't working. And so if you left a review and didn't hear back from me, I can only suppose that my reply is still floating about somewhere in cyberspace.

And so without further ado…

xxxxx

Chapter 4

A thin, cold tendril of horror wormed its way past Sam's grief and coiled around his heart. He sat there, frozen, grappling with the sudden knowledge of who had found them on the roadside.

"You," he whispered, eyes wide with dread. "It's you." He could not repress a shudder at the remembered sensation of the voice in his head, of insects crawling beneath his skin. With a violent flinch, he wrenched away from the overly familiar hand resting on his shoulder and scrabbled backwards off the bed to land in a clumsy crouch. Straightening, he stared at the smiling man, standing there so complacent, gazing fondly at him with a disconcerting sense of possessiveness.

He swallowed and tasted the memory of blood, and tried to put more distance between them. But there was nowhere to go.

And the old man stood in Sam's path to the door.

"Samuel, I knew you'd find me." Still with that benign smile, he chuckled as though at a private joke. "It was fated."

"Who are you?" Sam asked in a voice raw with pain. His eyes blurred, and there was an ache in his chest so deep with sorrow he could hardly breathe. "How do you know my name? What do you want?" Keeping his back to the wall, he carefully began to work his way around the end of the bed.

"Why, I want you, boy. You and your wonderful, lovely gift." The eyes glittered strangely as they followed Sam's movement. The smile lost its friendly edge, and for an instant, the man's expression revealed nothing but a greedy hunger, which just as quickly disappeared beneath the bland mask once again. "I _was_ coming to get Max. But you know how _that _turned out." The smile came back, as eager and bright as a child with a new toy. "But, oh, Samuel." His hands clasped together in an almost perverse image of prayer. "Imagine my delighted surprise when I found you instead. We shall be the best of friends. Such a happy addition to our little family you are, Samuel."

"Family?" A fierce rush of fury broke through the numbness that had enveloped him since learning about Dean. Sam clenched his hands into fists. His slow prowl came to a dead stop. "_Family?" _he repeated, incredulous. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Language, Samuel, please," the man said primly, lips pursed in disapproval. "I gather that you must be a little upset right now, but really, that's hardly an excuse, is it?" He shook his head as though saddened by Sam's behavior and went on. "But, yes, Samuel. Family. And you must call me 'Father,' the same as they do. My beautiful, beautiful children, and their many astounding gifts. Just like you, Samuel, my dear boy. And I know you'll come to love them all as much as I have."

"I've already got a family." Sam flung the words at him, his voice breaking despite his effort to keep calm, to keep this man from getting to him. He swallowed the tight, hard lump of grief in his throat, furiously blinking back tears. He would _not _allow this man to see his pain, to know anything of him or Dean.

The chuckle that started at Sam's words grew into a hearty laugh. "What," he asked, when his laughter subsided, "a wastrel brother burned to a crisp and a missing father? You call that a family? You don't need them, and you never did. Please, Samuel, don't try my patience. You won't like the result." The voice turned hard. "We're your family now. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"What do you know about my father?" Sam demanded harshly. "And what happened to my brother? What did you do?"

"Only what I had to, Samuel," came the calm reply. "It was for your own good. I know in time you'll come to realize that. You must trust me, Samuel. I did it for you. The same as I would, and indeed, have done for all my children."

He had to catch the wall for support as stark comprehension hit him. "Oh, God," he whispered, his horror growing, the cold spreading. "_What did you do?_ He was _alive_ when I got out of the car. He _was._ You killed him, didn't you, you son of a bitch? You –"

He lunged forward, closing the distance between them, intent on wiping that smug, loathsome smile off the old man's face, wanting nothing more than to beat him senseless. His fury shocked him for only a heartbeat. The idea that he could deliberately and willingly harm another person, another human being, flitted just as briefly across his thoughts.

Sam didn't care. He hurt too much.

Dean was dead. Oh, God. _Dean was dead. Murdered. _

And this bastard was _smiling _about it.

But even as he grabbed the man's shoulder, and drew back a fist, something picked Sam up and flung him backwards, sending him crashing into the far wall with brutal force and driving the air from his lungs. He slid down until he hit the floor, gasping for breath, and looked dazedly up at "Father," suddenly standing over him.

"Your first lesson, Samuel," the man coldly informed him. "You can't hurt me, you can't touch me, and I will brook neither disobedience nor backtalk."

Sam shifted, tried to gather his feet beneath him to stand up. But that invisible hand slammed him down again. A groan forced its way past his lips.

"I think it's time you met your new brother, Samuel." Without taking his eyes off of Sam, the man calling himself Father called out, "Come in, please, Brian."

As he fought for breath, still unable to move his limbs, Sam watched as a teenage boy sidled into the room to stand beside the old man. At first glance, he looked like any kid to be found hanging out at the local mall. Dressed in knee-torn blue jeans, a Hard Rock Café sweatshirt, and grubby Nikes. Unruly fair hair. But Sam felt his skin crawl again as the boy stared down at him, unblinking, with cold blue eyes.

It was the boy from his vision. One of the kids in the van. Except he wasn't screaming, and not particularly frightened-looking.

Sam's head spun as he looked up at the kid. Who – what – was he? Kidnap victim of a murderous, deranged pedophile? Or willing accomplice? Another piece of a bizarre puzzle that continued to make no sense . . . .What the hell had he fallen into here? What had the vision been trying to tell him? To save the kids? Or had it been about Dean all along?

And he'd failed spectacularly at that, hadn't he?

He choked back another strangled sob. Unable to move, he forced himself to watch the scene playing out in front of him, to find out what was going on.

Father settled an arm around the boy's thin shoulders. "Brian, this is Samuel. Your brother." He smiled down at the top of the boy's blond head, a few inches below his. "A brother, Brian. Won't that be nice? What with two sisters, that should make you happy!"

"Yes, Father," Brian replied, still staring at Sam. Then the eyes narrowed, and a spark of something dark and dangerous glittered in them. He turned his face up to Father. "But you still love me best, right? I mean, just 'cause he's older doesn't mean he's better, does it? I was here first." The malevolent gaze shifted back to Sam. "Look at him," the boy went on. His tone was disdainful and jeering, like every playground bully Sam had ever had the misfortune to run across while growing up. "He can't even move. I'm way stronger."

"Indeed, Brian, you're very strong. But I think we can let Samuel go now, all right? I think he's learned his lesson for the day. And remember, he _is _new with us, so try to be a little bit understanding, hm?"

_Yeah, let's all be one big, happy family, okay? Shit. Maybe we should get a puppy while we're at it._

"Samuel?"

The pressure eased just enough for Sam to take a deep breath. He glared at the old man, coughed, and tried out his voice. "What?" Thick and harsh, but it worked. "What do you want?"

"Just for you to be happy, my dear boy," he answered, frowning slightly, as if it should be obvious. "To realize your full potential. I can help you, Samuel. Forget about your brother. He was afraid of you and only holding you back. You know that, don't you? It will be better, now that he's gone." Then he smiled again, that fucking smile Sam already heartily detested. "Now, Brian and I are going to let you go, as I trust you won't try anything so foolish as you did earlier. But just in case, I'm going to have Brian keep an eye on you. The bathroom is down the hall, and when you're done cleaning up, why don't you come into the kitchen with Brian, and meet the rest of the family. Your sisters, yes. We'll see about getting us all some breakfast. I'm sure Paige will be more than happy to fix something. Yes, she'll be quite delighted."

He watched as Father and Brian shared a glance, some sort of unspoken agreement passing between them. When their attention turned back to Sam, the force that had kept him pinned to the wall let go. He slumped forward with a pained grunt as pins and needles ran up and down his limbs, and he sat for a moment just trying to get his breath back.

"Very well, Samuel," Father said. "I hope you won't disappoint me." He gave Sam a last slightly disapproving glance before turning his attention to Brian. "Now, Brian, my boy, I must check in on the girls, as I fear I've left them alone for a little while now. Please look after our guest, there's a good lad."

"Yes, Father."

Sam listened to the footsteps retreat from the room and vanish down the hallway. He could feel the kid's eyes boring into him.

Sam purposefully ignored him, knowing how much that would piss the kid off. So he sat against the wall, took several deep breaths and shut his eyes, finding it increasingly harder to keep from openly crying. He desperately needed some time to gather his wits and come up with a way out of this nightmare.

_Snap out of it, Sammy,_ he could hear Dean saying, exasperated. _Get all emo later. Plenty of time to cry like a girl after you shag ass and get the hell outta here. _

His breath caught in another painful spasm. _Right,_ he thought dully, squeezing his eyes shut. _Dean's right. Emo later, shag ass now. On your own for this one, Sam. _No brother to come to his rescue. Never again. So many things, never again. He let his head fall back to hit the wall. It was too much. The pain was just too much. There was a hole in his chest that was too big and too empty to be filled by anything, ever, and with a silent howl of despair, he wasn't sure if he could even try. He banged his head on the wall again. And again.

_Oh, God, he's dead. I saw it, and I still couldn't stop it. I didn't figure it out. I'm sorry, Dean. It's all my fault. You're dead because of me. It's all my fault . . . ._

The litany repeated over and over in his mind as he sat there, unseeing, thumping his head against the wall, only vaguely aware of the fact that it hurt. His soul hurt a hell of a lot more, half of it ripped out, bleeding, leaving him hollow and cold.

Dean was dead, and now this lunatic wanted to add Sam to his crazy little family. For his "gift." How did he know about Sam in the first place? And now that Father had him, what next?

_Max. He'd been going after Max. And found me. He's got other kids. Kids like Max? Like me? Who the hell is this guy? What does he want me . . . us . . . for? He's willing to kill, whatever it is. Son of a bitch. I'll get him, Dean. I will. For you._

He very carefully remembered the last sight he had of Dean, and, just as carefully, tucked the memory and the raw grief into a deep, dark corner of his mind. For later.

"Man," the kid, Brian, said. "You look like you're gonna start crying like a little girl."

Coming from Dean, the comment would have had him rolling his eyes and making an equally snarky comeback. But now . . . Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at the little shit to _Shut the fuck up already. I just lost my brother._

Instead, he raised his head to squint up at the boy, who still stared at him with rabid intensity, his eyes as scary as those on any walking corpse Sam had ever seen.

"What?" the kid demanded. "You got somethin' to say?"

Sam licked his lips. A horrible suspicion had crept into his mind since dear, demented Father had mentioned Max. It couldn't be a coincidence. Max. Himself. And now this kid, who had slammed him effortlessly, it seemed, into a wall without breaking into a sweat. The two girls he'd glimpsed in his vision – what about them? What "gifts" did they have? All of them brought together, to wind up here, wherever the hell they were . . . .

"So, um, Brian," he rasped. With a cough he cleared his throat and tried again. "How did you meet –" he could hardly bring himself to say the word – "Father?"

Brian crossed his arms in front of his skinny chest. "He found me."

"Yeah, okay, but what about . . . your parents?" As he spoke he got clumsily to his feet, using the wall for balance, and keeping a wary eye on Brian. But the boy made no attempt to stop him, merely watching his efforts with thinly disguised contempt.

"Don't have any parents," Brian responded, without a flicker. "Died when I was a baby. Some stupid accident. I dunno."

_Shit, _Sam cursed._ This just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? _

He forgot to breathe for a moment and had to lean on the wall again. His voice sounded strange to his own ears as he asked, "It . . . wasn't a . . . fire, was it?"

A careless shrug, the kind only a supremely sullen teenager could pull off. "Don't know, don't care. Why do _you_ care?"

"Just wondering how you met up with this guy," Sam said, shrugging as well, trying for casual indifference. _Accident. Too young to remember. Could be anything . . . . _But he had to wipe his suddenly sweating palms on his jeans as he made himself focus his attention on the boy.

"I was gonna run away from the last foster home I got dumped in. They were stupid, just like all the others. I hated them, hated that stupid school." Another shrug. "Father found me. Showed me what I could do if I really wanted to." The cold eyes looked beyond Sam for a moment before swinging back to him. With a smile that looked all wrong on a teenage boy's face, he added, "Nobody is ever gonna make me do anything I don't want to, ever again. Nobody's gonna laugh at me, or call me stupid."

"Ah, I'm sure they won't," Sam said, the unease scaling to new heights. _Oh, yeah, _Dean's sardonic voice seemed to whisper in his mind. _Gifted, my ass. He's just fucking crazy, Sam. Bet he doesn't play well with others. Probably runs with scissors, too. Stay outta his way, okay? Don't waste time on this "Father" creep. Get outta here, Sam. I mean it._

_Can't make any promises, Dean, _Sam thought bleakly. _Does it even matter?_

"Shut up," the kid ordered abruptly. "Get moving. You can use the bathroom, but no fooling around. I can stop you if you try anything. Don't fuck with me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sam replied, his own voice distant. He walked past the kid into the hallway, and heard him follow along with shuffling footsteps.

A part of Sam knew he had to pay attention to things, to details that could matter later. John had trained them, as long as Sam could remember, to take notice of their surroundings, recognize landmarks – it was training that had started off as games, then turned harder, more serious, the older they got. Dean had always had a gleeful, natural ability at it, along with a sense of direction that bordered on the uncanny.

Sam wondered if he should even bother. The only reason was Dean, really. Dean would want him to pay attention.

So the part of his mind that ran on autopilot took note of the two closed doors on the opposite side of the room he'd woken up in, the hallway that in one direction ended with the bathroom, and in the other led to what was probably the cabin's main room. And it _was_ merely a cabin, he decided; nothing fancy, but well built and maintained from what he could see of it so far.

Brian gestured at the bathroom as they came to a stop in front of the door, and took up a leaning stance on the wall.

"You gonna wait?" Sam asked.

He just gave Sam a flat-eyed stare. "Father said."

"Right," Sam muttered, under his breath. "Of course he did. Silly me." He went in and firmly shut the door behind him, sagging his weight against it. The bathroom was barely bigger than a walk-in closet, but he was alone behind a closed door, and as the tears threatened again, this time he let them come. _Oh, God. Dean . . . ._ He slid down until he landed on the floor, knees up against his face, and wept hot gulping sobs that shook his shoulders and made his head ache.

All too soon, a fist pounded on the door, sending a tremor through him. "Hey! Hurry up in there!"

Sam raised his head. The tears had gradually slowed and at last subsided. But he felt both hot and cold, and his stomach twisted in sickening knots. He got unsteadily to his feet and braced his hands on the sink.

"Come on out! Now!" The door rattled again.

"Shut up!" he shouted back, his voice raw. "I'll be out when I'm damn well ready!"

After a moment's pause came the petulant, grumbled reply. "Well, make it fast."

"Why not come in and get me," Sam murmured, "if you're so damn strong . . . ."

_Huh. Or maybe not._

He splashed cold water on his face, and looked up at his reflection in the mirror. Aside from the obvious signs of his crying, there wasn't a mark on him. No blood, no bruising. _Because Dean took the brunt of it, didn't he? Just like always. _Water dripped off his chin. His face was pale, his hair a wild tangle hanging over swollen, reddened eyes that held only loss and despair.

Unable to return that empty gaze any longer, he quickly took care of his ablutions, and as he dried his hands, he realized with a grimace that he had nothing but the clothes he stood in. His wallet was no longer in his jeans pocket, and he had put his cell phone in the jacket he'd taken off to . . . tuck around Dean in the car. Gone now. Cell phone, jacket, car, weapons . . . Dean.

He had nothing.

Crap, he thought, leaning on the sink again, he didn't even know where the hell he was. How far could the old man have driven them in that storm last night after picking him up? It had been late afternoon, around five o'clock or so, when Dean had woken up during the storm, just before that damn vision struck. When the Impala had gone in the ditch. And then, and then . . . . _On fire, in flames, and Dean with her. _He tried to blink the horribly vivid image away, but knew it was still there, would always be there . . . . And after, when he'd blacked out, Father had no doubt simply dumped him in the back of that godawful orange van and driven who knows where or how far.

Away from Dean, away from where he'd died. Where he'd been murdered.

And now it was hours later, and he was alone.

He glanced up into the mirror, meeting his bleak eyes. He couldn't afford to mourn now. Not if he wanted to get out of here, not if he wanted Father to suffer the consequences for what he'd done to Dean. He reached for anger, which wasn't as hard as he thought; it had merely been overshadowed by grief. So he drew on that cold, calculating anger to give him strength, and he nodded once at his pale reflection, his hands tightening on the rim of the porcelain sink.

_Time to go hunting, Sam._

He opened the bathroom door. The kid gave him a glare when he stepped out into the hallway.

"Took ya long enough."

"Sorry," Sam said, with a thin edge of sarcasm.

Missing it completely, Brian gestured for Sam to precede him down the hall.

When Sam did not immediately comply, he jerked as he felt a not-so-slight mental jab in the ribs and he shot the boy a glare.

"It's not smart to keep Father waiting, not if you know what's good for you," Brian warned with a nasty smile.

Sam rolled his eyes, started walking, and realized for a heart-stopping breath that he was waiting for a smartass comment from Dean. He missed a step, caught himself.

Oh, God, he couldn't do this.

_Emo later, Sammy, _he heard as a whisper in the back of his mind. _First things first, right?_

_Right, _he whispered back. _Plan A. _

He shortened his usual lengthy stride, slowed just a bit, and when the kid nearly ran into his back, he spun around and at once lashed out with a fist to catch the startled boy on the side of his head. With a surprised yelp Brian sagged to the floor. Sam bent, aimed another punch, but before it could land, he was flung backwards to wind up flattened full length on the floor of the hallway. His head struck with a painful thump, and once again invisible bonds rendered him immobile.

When his eyes blinked dazedly open it was to see Brian, on his hands and knees, leaning over him and staring into his face.

"Told you . . . not to fuck . . . with me, you freak," Brian grunted, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

The condescension and contempt in the boy's voice sent a white-hot surge of rage through Sam. He shut his eyes. A low, guttural noise made its way past his gritted teeth, and he fought against the power holding him, trying to push back. Whatever it was he had done in a locked closet in Max's house, out of pure desperation to save Dean, didn't seem to be working here.

_"Pathetically unable to bend just a damn spoon, you little wuss," Dean said, not quite smirking at him from across the dead-frog-green motel room._

"_Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I'm around," Dean stated simply, rolling up his clothes and stuffing them in his duffel bag._

"_He was alive when I got out of the car!" Sam shouted. _

"_Forget about your brother," Father said, calm, smiling. " We're your family now."_

Something snapped in him then, deep and terrible, and he reached for it, gathered it up, and flung it outward.

The crowing laughter he'd been vaguely aware of abruptly cut off.

Sam sucked in a deep breath and shoved himself up on his elbows in astonishment when the pressure holding him down vanished. He spared one gasping breath to see Brian bent double, before kicking his brain and body into gear and staggering upright.

Only to be pushed into the wall.

With a shouted curse, Sam struggled. And either he was getting better at this, or he'd hurt Brian enough with the blow to the head. He dropped away from his pinned position on the wall and shaking with anger, his hands clenched so tight into fists that his knuckles hurt, Sam turned to face the kid.

Brian had straightened up, but sweat glistened on his suddenly pale face. He stared at Sam with hotly furious eyes.

"I'm stronger than you," panted Brian. "I _am."_

"Maybe," Sam said, softly, dangerously. He stalked forward and startled the kid enough to make him clumsily backpedal out of the way a couple of steps. Studying the now wary boy, wondering how far he could push him, Sam added, "Maybe you are stronger. But maybe not all the time, huh?" When that didn't get a response he went on, taunting, "Don't like to lose, do you, Brian. Not used to that, I bet. Not now, not with _Father _around, making you feel so special. Do you always do what Father says, Brian? Because you like being strong? Or are you just too weak to say 'no'?"

Brian's face twisted in an ugly leer. "I'll tell Father you tried to get away."

"Yeah, you do that, you little punk. Are you gonna tell him you almost couldn't stop me?"

"I _did _stop you," the kid blustered, as though needing to convince himself as much as proving it to Sam.

Sam's mouth turned up in a humorless smile. "Almost," he repeated. "And not for long. Shall we call this round a draw?" He lowered his head and his voice. "I won't say anything if you won't."

He watched the kid's eyes narrow in self-interested calculation, and saw some of the arrogance return.

"Deal," Brian said, after a long moment.

"Okay," Sam said, nodding, not trusting the kid an inch. But it would have to do for now.

"Well, come on then."

Brian moved off impatiently down the hallway. Sam sighed and followed him, to see the cabin's main room on the right, complete with a couch and chairs faded to a dingy brown, and a big stone fireplace. Off to the left was the kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter and a couple of tall stools.

Even as they rounded the counter, the kitchen screen door opened with a quiet creak. A girl eased her way backwards into the room, carefully shutting the door behind her. When she turned and saw Brian, then Sam, she froze to a standstill with a startled gasp.

Sam knew her at once as the teenage girl from his vision. Her round, freckled face was pale, but that could've been merely because of the fair skin that went with her red hair. But the eyes behind the glasses were wide, and they darted back and forth between him and Brian. She pushed her glasses up with a forefinger, then crossed her arms in front of her and shifted away as Brian moved closer to her.

The girl was clearly terrified, and trying desperately not to show it.

Brian, his confidence seemingly restored after Sam's near escape, just as clearly appeared to enjoy her unease.

"Hi," Sam said, directing his gaze to hers. "I'm Sam."

Brian spun around on his heel and frowned. "Father said your name was Samuel."

"It's Sam," he said firmly, still looking at the girl, who was at least looking back, and not at Brian. "My dad calls me Samuel only when he's really mad at me. And my brother calls . . . ." He faltered, swallowed. "My brother called me Sammy, sometimes."

"I'm Paige," the girl ventured softly, "just Paige."

"Nice to meet you." Sam did his best to give her a smile, but he knew it was a miserable one.

She must have appreciated the effort for what it was, at least, for she responded with a slight smile of her own. He caught a glint of metal on her teeth. "Same here . . . Sam."

"Oh, shut up, you stupid shit," Brian put in. You're supposed to make breakfast, Father said."

"There's nothing to eat here!" she said, turning to him and suddenly on the verge of tears. "I looked already! Well, nothing good," she amended hastily. "Just cans of stuff. Beans and soup and vegetables." She raised her chin with an unexpected flare of defiance. "If you want creamed corn for breakfast, you go right ahead."

"You can't talk to me like that, Paige," Brian said coldly. "Ever."

Sam moved in Paige's direction, careful, watching the boy's eyes and stance, ready to step in front of her or tackle Brian if he tried the wall-slamming stunt with the younger girl. The idea of punching Brian bothered him a lot less than it did a little while ago. He didn't normally contemplate the idea of beating up kids, but he was willing to make an exception with the Nazi Youth right here in the kitchen.

When Paige didn't answer, when she cringed into the corner like a frightened animal, Brian added with a malicious smile, "Pig. Fat piggy Paige."

"Don't call me that!" she said, flushing, the red staining her cheeks almost the same color as her hair.

Sam stood in front of her, blocking her from Brian. "Hey, now. That's enough."

Brian turned a loathing glare on him. "I don't have to listen to –"

"Is there a problem, children?"

They all looked across the room. Sam shivered. The words were mild, but the tone beneath them was steel. Father stood in the cabin's main room, frowning at the three of them. He walked around the dividing counter, and Sam saw his hand tugging a little girl along with him. Sam felt sick as he watched her – head bowed, long dark hair straggling down over her face, feet dragging. In bright pink overalls and matching sneakers, she was a tiny thing, even smaller than she'd appeared to him in the vision. It was hard to tell how old she was, maybe only seven or eight.

"No, Father," Brian said quickly, backing away from Sam and Paige. Sam thought he caught a fleeting look of fear on the boy's face. "No problem."

"That's what I want to hear." Father studied each of them carefully, then smiled. "It's good to know you're all getting along, hm? That's what I like, yes." He turned his attention to Paige, still standing slightly behind Sam. "How's that breakfast coming, my dear?"

"There . . . there's nothing to eat, really, Father," she said faintly, eyes down. "I looked, I'm sorry, but . . . . Just canned stuff. Some juice in the freezer. No bread or eggs or cereal or anything. We need to . . . to go shopping, I guess."

"Oh, a shopping trip!" He beamed at them. "Yes, quite. Why didn't I think of that? Well, why don't you and Rosa and I go, and see what we can find. We'll let the boys stay here."

"Yes, Father," Paige whispered. She ducked out from behind Sam, joining Father and the little girl.

"Oh, Samuel. I almost forgot." With a fond smile at the girl whose hand he still held, he said, "Meet Rosa. She doesn't say much, not much at all, but I can tell she likes you already. You'll get to know her better soon, when we return. You and Brian, now, you boys can work on neatening up the house a bit, eh?"

Sam caught the glimmer of a triumphant smirk Brian tossed his way just before the boy turned to Father. "He tried to get away, Father, but I stopped him. See, Father? We can't trust him. He doesn't belong with us."

So much for that agreement, Sam thought sourly, not overly surprised. He didn't even bother glaring at Brian, just stared expressionlessly at Father, who contemplated him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

"Well done, Brian," Father said, with a brief glance at the boy. "However, we will discuss later how Samuel was able to even attempt an escape."

Brian's smirk disappeared. "Yes, Father."

Turning his attention to Sam, Father sighed gently. "Oh, Samuel. Samuel, Samuel. My dear boy. I am _so _disappointed." He handed a silent Rosa off to Paige and moved closer to Sam, who held his ground. "I thought we understood each other. You have nothing and no one to go to – don't you see that? Not now, not ever. But it appears I misjudged your stubbornness. Samuel, I do believe that it would be, ah, in your best interests if you went back to your room."

"Would that be with the door locked?" Sam asked, standing as tall as he could. Which was about six inches higher than Father.

"Why, yes, Samuel, I do believe so. And with the shutters securely latched over the windows. Just in case."

xxxxx

By late afternoon Sam was climbing the walls. With the windows firmly boarded shut, the door bolted from the outside, and without a lock pick – or even a damn paperclip – in sight, he was stuck. So he sat, cooling his heels, and experimented with trying to shift objects in the room. There wasn't much to work with, and all his time and concentration on attempting to push the lamp an inch or two across the nightstand had only succeeded in giving him a headache. That strange surge of power that had freed him briefly from Brian's hold failed to make another appearance.

He was beyond frustrated, unable take action, and nothing but four walls and a ceiling to stare at. But at least they'd bothered to feed him and give him bathroom breaks. Paige had come shyly in later that morning, escorted by Brian, with a tray of orange juice and toast and bacon. Evidently, the shopping trip had been successful. She'd smiled wanly in apology at the meager offering and started to say something, but Brian had quickly hissed at her to be quiet. They had left immediately, and Sam had heard the lock click into place once more.

The very idea of eating had made him faintly nauseous. He still ached with grief and anger, but knew he'd be of no use to himself or anyone else if he passed out from hunger. The toast was cold, the bacon was crisp to the point of nearly charred, but he forced it all down, only then realizing that he hadn't eaten anything since lunch the day before. When he and Dean had stopped at the roadside diner.

About a thousand years ago.

Paige, with a distrustful Brian again looking on, had brought him another tray around one o'clock or so, this time of sandwiches and macaroni and cheese out of a box. She'd given him an odd look when one side of his mouth pulled up in a small, sad smile, but what could he possible have said?

Was everything from now on going to remind him of Dean? He stared sightlessly up at the ceiling from where he lay on the bed and blinked against a sudden sting of tears. Macaroni and cheese, for Christ's sake. Out of a box. How many times had Dean made them macaroni and cheese when they were kids? Dean would be laughing his ass off at Sam getting maudlin over mac'n'cheese.

Dean.

Sam wiped his burning eyes.

He had to get out of here. And he had to get the kids out of here. Paige and Rosa, for sure. The older girl was scared, obviously here against her will, and what he'd seen of Rosa . . . she'd been unresponsive and practically catatonic Brian . . . well, the kid _seemed_ happy with the homicidal lunatic, but . . . no. He'd seen that brief flash of fear on Brian's face when Father had walked in during their near-argument in the kitchen. They all had to get out. And soon.

He wanted revenge for Dean. That cold, hard fact hadn't changed. But he wouldn't – couldn't – leave the kids in Father's hands. Dean would be the first one to agree with that. First, get the innocents to safety. _Then _deal with the monster.

Of course, that plan always worked a lot better when it was the two of them.

He rubbed his aching forehead and counted the knots in the paneling. Again. And tried to come up with a plan. Without Dean.

The same questions that had circled endlessly, wearily through his mind all afternoon continued to flutter like birds trapped in a cage.

_Just who, exactly, is Father? How the hell did he get inside my head? How did he find these kids, and what does he want with them? With me? What does he need our "gifts" for? Are Brian and Paige and Rosa all like Max . . . and me? Did their mothers die pinned to a ceiling, burning, murdered by a demon for reasons unknown?_

_What now? Play along? Find out the game plan? Need more info. Gotta do the research before we – I – make any moves._

Sam stared at the ceiling. He didn't like doing this alone. He freakin' well _hated _doing this alone.

_God, I miss you, Dean._

The scrape of a key in the lock startled him. Paige had knocked first, and anyway, it was too early for supper . . . .

The door slammed open and bounced against the wall. He jumped a bit in spite of himself, in spite of his determination not to show this man anything. With a quick move he was up and off the bed, prepared to meet Father on his feet.

"What do you want now?" Sam demanded as the man entered the room.

Father – and Paige. Trailing after him with visible reluctance. She stopped and stood off to one side, a step or two behind him, and from where Father couldn't see her, she turned a pale, anguished face to Sam.

"_I'm sorry," _she mouthed at him. Her eyes slid to Father.

"Shut the door, Paige," Father said, his attention firmly on Sam.

"Yes, Father," she whispered, quickly obeying.

"Come beside me now."

Sam didn't miss the shudder as she came to stand next to the old man, nor the slight flinch as he put his arm around her shoulders. He felt a wave of revulsion and sick horror wash through him at the gesture, but he somehow managed to keep his face impassive.

"Now, Samuel," Father began, earnest and persuasive. "I know this is all new to you, and maybe we didn't get off on quite the right foot, you and I. But I have only your best interests at heart, can't you see? Out there, Samuel." He lifted the hand that wasn't on Paige's shoulder, motioning. "Out there in the world, people don't understand you. To them, you're a freak, a monster. They're afraid of you, and afraid of your gifts. But I'm not. My children aren't. You're special, Samuel. You're _all _special. We will do great things, you and I. All of us. You don't need anyone else."

And while Father's voice droned on, Sam felt something . . . something horribly familiar growing subtly in the back of his mind and crawling beneath his skin. A susurration, an undercurrent of whispers.

"Forget your brother, Samuel," he heard Father say. "He was afraid of you, too. Your own brother. You wouldn't have been able to trust him, don't you see? He would've turned on you, hurt you, in the end. Out of fear. He was nothing, Samuel. _Nothing._ No one will miss him. You don't need him anymore . . . ."

The ingratiating voice writhed delicately through his thoughts, caressing, coaxing; urging him to believe, yes, yes . . . .

_Yes, listen to me. You know it's true._

"What do you want from me?" he asked again, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. The voice pulsed in his head.

_It's all for the best, Samuel. Trust me. I can help you. Trust me, believe in me, and nothing bad will happen to you ever again. . . ._

"No one will be able to stop us, Samuel," Father went on, the hypnotic tones rising and falling eerily in rhythm with the voice in Sam's head. "We will be invincible, and perfect, and with your help, we will find more children like you. Many more. It will be wondrous. We will be able to do anything, anything at all. Whatever we want. Whatever _you_ want, Samuel. Whatever you desire. Don't you see?"

Eyes shut, he felt himself sway. He fell, banging his knees into the unforgiving hardwood floor. His hands, bunched into fists, clenched his temples.

"I want my brother, you murdering bastard!" he shouted.

_"Look," Dean said, lying on the bed and looking over at Sam. "If that spooky bastard calls again, hang up on him. Shut him out. Whatever. Or I'll have a few words of my own to say to him."_

_Dean. Dean's right. Shut him out._

"Get out of my head, you sonuvabitch!" Sam yelled, loudly, drowning out the man's voice. The voice in his head didn't falter. _Hang up on him, Sam. Shut him out._ Having absolutely no real idea of what he was doing, he simply went with his instincts. In an instant, he pictured mental walls slamming down, heavy, unyielding. Oak and iron. Then he laid down a circle of salt.

Then he pushed.

_Out, out, out. Get out of my head. You have no power here. Go away!_

Even as his mind held the barrier of wood and iron and salt, out loud he began to intone an ancient exorcism. The familiar comfort of the words steadied him; the Latin flowed out of him like water over smooth stones. The soothing cadences drowned out the whisper that twisted insidiously and insistently through his thoughts.

A sudden sharp slap across one cheek snapped his head back, and with gasp he opened his eyes, the Latin breaking off in mid-word.

But the voice had stopped.

Father stood over him, red-faced and shaking in rage. His hand was raised, as though he were going to land another blow, and Sam ducked out of the way then lurched unsteadily to his feet.

A quick glance showed Paige, wide-eyed, both hands over her mouth as if to hold back a scream, her back pressed against the door. She gave him a small jerky nod, as if to tell him she was all right.

"Enough of your gibbering nonsense, boy!" Father barked. "You will listen, and you will obey. Do you hear me?"

"Go to hell," Sam snarled. "I'm not interested in anything you have to say, and I'm not interested in being used, for whatever it is you have in mind. World domination or knocking over liquor stores, I don't really care." His voice grew to an angry shout. "I won't be a part of it, and I won't let you use these kids anymore!"

Breathing hard, hands curled into fists, Sam met Father's pale eyes with a steady stare, refusing to back down.

That usual benign smile was nowhere in sight. Instead, Father's lips were compressed in a flat, thin line. The man's jaw looked clenched tight enough to crack, and the blue eyes burned with fury.

He looked, Sam thought with satisfaction, utterly and absolutely pissed off.

_You don't have your precious Brian to protect you now, you bastard. Want to see if I can take you? Let's see just how strong you are._

Sam took a step forward, hands coming up, and ready to throw a punch. A right cross. That should do it.

"Oh, Samuel," Father said softly, shaking his head. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to such crude methods, but you've forced my hand."

" 'Crude methods'?" Sam repeated, scoffing, taking another step. "Is that a threat to hurt me? Is that how you plan on getting me to do what you want?"

"I wouldn't hurt _you_, Samuel," Father said, as though shocked. "Never. You must believe that. No, not you nor any of the other children."

Despite himself, Sam stopped. "What?" he asked, fear suddenly prickling down his spine. When the old man's smile returned, gloating and sly, something cold clutched at his heart. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought you would be more agreeable, Samuel, really I did. But just in case, I did take some precautions. I believe I have something – some_one_ – of yours that might make you rather more . . . amenable to joining my little family. Hm?"

Sam swayed, his eyes closing, fear and hope warring in his soul. It couldn't be . . . . He was lying. There had been fire, and blood, and Sam had seen it all in full glorious color. He'd lost Dean to the fire. His vision had shown him, all too well. He'd seen it, and he hadn't been able to stop it . . . .

The old man was lying. He'd already admitted to killing Dean. It was just another head game.

But . . . he wanted to believe it. Oh, God, he did. If the old man wanted to hurt him, to twist the knife even further, he was doing a damn good job of it. Offering hope.

He took a shaky, careful breath and opened his eyes. "If my brother's alive . . . ." He swallowed. "You take me to him, you son of a bitch. Now."

TBC . . .


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Just a word or two. Honest (ask my beta!), I started writing this story back in June before "Simon Said" was even a glimmer on the spoiler boards. When I started hearing about that episode, I got nervous about how close my story might come to certain elements in it. Then the episode aired, I got a little hysterical, and I almost dropped this story altogether, but decided to go on with it anyway.

So. There are some similarities, but I'm sticking with my original plot. Because it's too late to change it now, and I'm lazy that way. Enough with the rant.

Thanks for all the reviews! I treasure each and every one. If you didn't hear back from me, I apologize – I tried to get to everybody, but again, the alerts and such have been a bit funky.

Again, thank you, Rhiannon, for comments and feedback; and thank you, Angela, for the excellently thorough (!) beta. Thanks for asking the questions that made this chapter better, for making me work at it. You're the best!

xxxxx

Chapter 5

_Sometime the previous day, at a location unknown . . . ._

He awoke to darkness and pain, thought and memory just beyond his grasp. That other darkness, yet too close, beckoned.

But not yet. There was something – he couldn't go yet . . . .

"Sammy?" he whispered. "Sammy . . . ."

No answer.

"No . . . ."

He fought, and lost, slipping away again.

And tossed restless, feverish, dreaming of a soft, sibilant voice in his head, something rifling through his mind and stealing his soul while ravens ripped greedily at his rotting flesh.

When he woke, one eye reluctantly fluttering open, pain still curled around him like an old friend. His confused, broken memories gave him blood and searing fire across his body, and his thoughts flickered randomly from a garishly ugly green motel room and a silver moonlit cemetery to an undead corpse and a pale, tight-lipped Sam.

Sam. Sewing his torn flesh back together, and wiping a cool cloth over his sweating face again and again.

He wanted to tell Sam to stop, that he wasn't hot anymore, because his battered senses slowly began to focus and now all he could feel was cold and damp. His leather jacket had somehow disappeared, and the rest of his clothing, waterlogged and heavy, clung uncomfortably to his skin. He couldn't stop the tremors that repeatedly swept through him, rattling his teeth.

Despite his physical misery, awareness thankfully started to seep back and after a long moment of puzzlement he finally figured out that he was laying on his side on hard and unforgiving concrete, one cheek scraping the floor, with his arms pulled awkwardly behind him.

Not just pulled, he realized abruptly when he tried to bring them forward, the shock waking him fully. Tied. Wrists bound securely together.

_What the hell? _

All he could hear in the silence was his own breathing, strained and harsh. The darkness lay heavy on him, smothering, almost claustrophobic. He licked his lips and with a grimace tasted blood, realizing that the entire right side of his face, from scalp to chin, felt tight and sticky. No wonder he couldn't get his other eye open. He coughed, his throat like sandpaper, and yearned for a glass of water. Hell, at the moment, he'd settle for a single swallow.

He widened the eye that worked, and turned his head as much as he was able, but there was nothing to see. There was absolutely no lessening of the darkness, no faint glimmer of light to outline even a door or window. He could be at the bottom of a coal mine for all he knew. And he was quite horribly certain he was alone. A different kind of panic swamped him then, not as easily suppressed.

"Sam?" His voice emerged thin and shaky. "Sam? You there?"

Wanting desperately to hear his brother's voice, and at the same time . . . . Not here, not trussed up like he was, like some helpless sacrificial goat.

No reply.

But if not here, then where?

His heartsuddenly pounded too fast, too loud, the blood rushing in his ears.

How long had he been here, with Sam somewhere else? Hurt, or . . . . God, he had to get out this dark place and find Sam.

He struggled against the pain and weakness, trying to sit up and feeling like a beach-stranded fish, his legs uncoordinated, flailing and thrashing. Moving turned out not to be one of his better ideas. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He drew his knees up against his chest, then lost the – thankfully – meager contents of his stomach. He followed that up by gagging through dry heaves that threatened to turn him inside out.

When the spasms finally ended, he managed to roll away on his other side and lay spent and panting, wracked with violent shivers. Distantly, he noticed that the worst of the pain – which he'd been doing his best to ignore up to this point – centered in the pounding agony of his head and his badly throbbing right arm.

He wondered what he'd done to earn himself a possible concussion and bound arms.

Sure couldn't be anything good.

"Shit," he muttered, curling in on himself again, trembling helplessly in his cold, damp clothes.

_Where are you, Sammy? And what hell is going on here?_

He squeezed his good eye shut, willfully disregarded the pain in his head that he was rather positive was due to a wide-open crack in his skull, and tried to remember what could've put him here.

Okay, he'd been sick. Hurt. He grimaced as he shifted his shoulder. Knife wound. The revenant in the cemetery since turned to mere dust and ashes. Over and done.

Sam. Something about Sam. . . .

_Ah, crap. _

His eye shot open and he stopped breathing for a few heartbeats.

Another goddamn vision – and a goddamn creepy bastard's voice in his little brother's head.

Son of a _bitch_.

Sam. Passing out with the pain of a vision while driving. And himself, grabbing the steering wheel from Sam's hands. The other car, headlights in the pouring rain, and nowhere to go but into the ditch.

He'd tried to put himself between Sam and the steering wheel. And was flung forward against the dash . . . .That explained the crack in his skull, then, as well as the sore chest he was just beginning to notice.

The splintering ache in his head made it difficult to think, and the fact that his brain felt as though it had turned to mush didn't help any. For the moment, it was all he could do to breathe through another bout of queasy lightheadedness, eyes squeezed tightly shut against the pain.

"Oh, shit," he moaned softly, allowing himself the luxury, as no one was around to hear him. He pressed his cheek against the cool concrete floor wondering why he was suddenly too warm. A minute ago he'd been shivering with a chill.

_Pull yourself together. You gotta get out of here and find Sammy._

He pushed aside the pain and forced himself to concentrate on how he could've wound up here. After going into the ditch . . . . He frowned, his memory a black hole.

Or was it? A spark of something. A feeling of . . . what?

"Come on, Dean," he murmured. "Figure it out. The answer's in there somewhere . . . ."

He'd woken, he realized abruptly. Woken in the rain, and hands were on him, pulling him roughly out of the Impala. But not Sam's familiar, ginormous mitts. Not Sam, whose hands always held him with a strong, careful grip. Whoever had him this time had slung him over their shoulder and carried him, arms dangling, and then dumped him . . . in the back of a truck? And his head had bounced, and he'd gone out again.

To wake up here. Wherever the hell "here" was.

And why, for that matter, was he here? Random kidnapping? Crime of convenience? Car in the ditch, easy pickings?

If he was tied up in the dark, what had happened to Sammy? Was he hurt, too, and waiting for his big brother to find him?

_Dammit, Sammy, where the hell are you?_

Too quickly, his overly vivid imagination presented him with a hundred terrifying images of what could have befallen his brother without him there to look out for Sam. Nightmares that he'd lived with for years in some form or another, and the panic he'd had marginally under control since waking reared its ugly head full force.

With a vicious curse, he strained and tugged on the ropes binding his wrists, panting with the effort, feeling the coarse fiber abrade his skin. Enough blood, and maybe he could just slip right out of these damn knots – they weren't as tight as the ones his dad used to test him with. This should be a goddamn piece of cake.

Too bad his fingers were practically numb.

He paused, heart racing, and tried a new tactic. Squirming and wriggling, he tried to slip his arms beneath him so at least, bound though he was, his arms would be in front. After a few minutes of increasingly painful struggle of trying to squeeze his knees into his chest, he subsided, breathing hard, right arm burning. Either he wasn't as limber as he thought, or else he just hurt in all the wrong places to play contortionist.

Of course, the last time he'd been able to do this, he'd been about ten, skinny as a shadow, and seemingly made out of rubber.

His thoughts started to float and the rest of him wanted to follow. The comforting pull of unconsciousness entreated oh so enticingly, but before it could completely draw him in he used what strength he still had and deliberately rolled over onto his right side. The result of banging his stitched arm into the hard floor made him yelp, but it also cleared the fog a bit.

After one last squirm he admitted defeat. He wasn't quite ready yet to go to the extreme of pulling a Houdini and dislocating his shoulders. Maybe his thumbs, though . . . . Shit, he thought wearily, never mind bending like a pretzel. He couldn't even reach down far enough to get to the damn knife tucked into his boot. And if he did manage to grab the little switchblade, he was pretty sure his numb fingers would only drop it before he could do anything with it.

Swearing steadily and quietly in the dark, he fumbled again with the knots, hands swollen and fingers clumsy, and tried to keep his ever-rising frustration at his own helplessness and fear for Sam at bay.

As he flexed and pulled against the rope, ignoring what it was doing to his already abused flesh, he tried to remember what Sam had told him about his most recent vision.

_Sammy has a vision of an accident – a crash, right? – and hey, what put us in the damn ditch? A freakin' near miss with another car in a storm. Not a coincidence, if you ask me. So, did we happen to land right in the middle of Sam's vision? _

_Huh. Ain't we just the lucky ones. We didn't have to chase it down this time – it found us instead. Well, dammit, good for us. Not. _

_What else, what else. . . .Jesus, blood and fire, he kept going on about blood and fire. _

Dean swallowed, his hands stilling.

_And me, he didn't see me. He couldn't find me. 'Cause I'm stuck in a cold, dark, creepy room? But Sammy didn't say anything about himself, that _he_ was hurt. So he must be okay, right? His visions are always about other people. Kids in this one, he said. Sammy's okay, it's the kids who're in trouble, and Sam's probably looking for me right now but he can't find me stuck wherever the hell I am. . . . _

_Sam's okay. Sam's okay, but you need to get out of here and go find him. You are not waiting for your little brother to come to your rescue. Move your ass, Dean, quit being such a wuss and get the friggin' hell out of here already._

"Sam's okay, Sam's okay," he continued to chant to himself, even as his traitorous memory replayed Sam gasping in pain and falling forward against him, out cold. _Stop it. _ "Sam's okay."

The knots still held firm, thanks to his almost useless fingers, but he'd managed to slick up the rope a bit more with his own blood. And enough of this rolling around on the floor. He left off with the knot project for a moment and tried again. With only a bit less difficulty than the first time around, he actually succeeded in carefully maneuvering himself onto his knees. Unfortunately, his head was not pleased with the result. His back bowed and with a moan he lowered his head toward the floor until the vertigo gradually diminished.

"Oh, God," he whispered hoarsely. "I feel like total and utter crap."

His head eventually stopped spinning, and after a couple of swallows, he cautiously eased his way upright again – just in time to hear a new noise somewhere off to his left. A soft thump, followed by a rattle of what could have been a chain. A squeak of hinges. His mouth went even drier. His muscles tensed. Someone was coming. Time for some answers.

He turned his head in the direction of the sounds; eyes cast down and half closed to preserve the little night vision he had. A draft of cool, rain-scented air swept in with the opening of a door, brushing his face. A bright burst of light blinded him despite his averted eyes and sent a stabbing pain straight through his tender skull. Blinking and swearing under his breath, he heard the door shut again, then footsteps approaching, one set firm and deliberate, and others – more than one – shuffling, dragging, as though hesitant.

Eye watering, vision slowly clearing, he squinted up. Into the face of an older man, who frowned sourly, as though highly displeased with what he saw. It was not a totally unfamiliar expression in Dean's far-ranging experience with authority figures over the years. School principals, officers of the law, doctors, and well-meaning but misguided social workers. He'd run the gamut.

But, jeez, he'd just met the guy – what could he possibly have done to piss him off already?

Dean dredged up a smirk from somewhere, just knowing the old guy would hate it.

Behind him stood three children of varying ages. Two girls and a boy. Not exactly a happy-looking little family – he wasn't getting any Brady Bunch vibes, that's for damn sure. Hell, not even _The Munsters . . . ._ He put the boy, older than the girls, at about fifteen or sixteen, checking him out with flat, cold eyes. The older girl had an arm wrapped around the younger one, holding her against her side. Unlike the old guy and the boy, she looked visibly distressed by his battered and bloody appearance. The younger girl kept her head down and turned away, and with her thin arms and legs, she looked like a small, frightened bird.

Dean quickly flicked his glance around the room he'd woken up in. Harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, and yeah, grey concrete beneath his knees. Garage, he thought, though maybe that was too generous. More like a storage shed. Floor to ceiling shelves ran along one entire wall, sagging under the weight of old wooden bird feeders, flower pots, bags of potting soil, oilcans and rolls of wire and whatnot. Stacks of firewood took up the back wall to his right, high enough to nearly block the single window. A canvas tarp covered most of a canoe at rest under a long worktable. More tarps stretched over unidentified lumps. An old push mower propped up an equally ancient bicycle.

He was lucky not to have blundered into anything in all of his squirming around.

But he was also happy to note that the place was filled with many sharp objects and future potential weapons. MacGyver would love it.

Committing the room to memory, he turned his full attention back to the old guy. He didn't _seem_ all that dangerous. But still . . . . Something about those creepy pale eyes had Dean on alert, his hunter's senses rising to the fore in spite of his chilled, aching body and the grinding pain in his head.

He wanted to back away. He wished he didn't feel like total crap. And he really wished his hands weren't tied behind his back.

Damned if he was gonna give the old guy the advantage of breaking the silence first, though. _Wait for it,_ he told himself. _He'll crack . . . . _

The old man cleared his throat almost delicately, still looking as though he were sucking on a particularly nasty lemon.

"Dean," he said. "You certainly don't look well at all, young man. I'm surprised you're awake." The pale eyes raked him head to toe, lingering on the bloody gash on his scalp. "I'm almost sorry about that," he added with a smile, not sounding sorry at all.

Dean knew he had a damn good poker face. He'd won enough hands at the game through sheer nerve and bluffing to prove it. So he didn't twitch so much as an eyelash when the other man said his name. Could be the guy had just lifted Dean's wallet. Maybe he'd found out from Sammy.

Dean went cold at that thought, but kept his mask in place, and if his fists clenched slightly behind him, the old guy couldn't see them.

He tipped his head sideways, considering, and thought about Sam's vision.

"Hey," he drawled. "You don't drive an old, ugly orange minivan, do ya, Pops?"

The old guy's poker face was nowhere as good as Dean's. The smug smile vanished and Dean saw him start before catching himself.

_Gotcha,_ he thought, and though it was probably a mistake, upped the annoyance level of his smirk a notch.

He kept his focus on the old man, but he caught a quick glimpse of the older girl, the redhead, from where she stood quietly behind and slightly to one side of him. Her eyes widened, and her mouth was a small round "O" of astonishment. Then she pressed her lips tight, locked her gaze on his and, to his surprise, shook her head minutely, as if in warning.

Hands clasped behind his back, the old man began to walk around Dean. Dean turned his head to follow the movement, shifting slightly on his knees. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the expression of distaste on the man's face as he fastidiously avoided the area where Dean had been sick.

"Oh, yeah, sorry about the mess," he said with an insincere smile, suddenly flashing to the cantina scene in _Star Wars _and Han's dramatic exit. He had to clamp his mouth shut on a snort of laughter; he doubted this uptight old guy had even seen _Star Wars._

Sam had. Sam would get the joke, would at least roll his eyes and throw something at him.

Sam. Dean blinked and forced his mind back to the matter at hand. "So? What about it, Gomer – you don't mind if I call you Gomer, do ya? – _are _you driving around in an orange minivan full of kids?" He tilted his head and added, "Been in any accidents lately?"

"You will be silent!" The voice came from directly behind him, furious, lashing out.

And when Dean opened his mouth, nothing emerged. He couldn't get any air into his lungs. _What the hell? _ His throat felt as though a fist were squeezing it shut, getting tighter and tighter, and when blackness danced at the edge of his vision he slumped forward onto the floor. His heart hammered frantically, his chest burned, and the blackness overwhelmed him.

Then the fist vanished, and he was gulping air in great gasping breaths, coughing and wheezing. When his breathing finally evened out and he could raise his head again, a smooth voice spoke next to his ear.

"I almost killed you out there, boy, out on the side of the road," the old man said with a quiet, matter-of-fact menace that sent a shiver down Dean's spine. "Almost ended it right then and there a few hours ago. You and that car of yours, going up in flames."

Dean couldn't help it. He flinched.

"Oh, don't like the thought of that, do you? What _is_ it about you and fire, Dean?" He chuckled. "Well, you got lucky, boy. I kept you alive on a whim. Just in case. I thought you might come in handy if events don't play out quite right. But I can easily change my mind, Dean. You're nothing, boy, do you hear me? _Nothing._ And I can do anything I want to you."

Dean turned to glare at the old man. "Go to hell, you sick son of a bitch," he rasped.

The sour-lemon look returned, along with a sorrowful shake of the head. "Dean, I realize that you are a crude, uncouth young man, desperately lacking in the social graces, but please. I must ask you to watch your language in front of the children. I won't have you setting a bad example."

Dean let out a choked laugh. "Oh, and letting them watch you suffocate someone you've got tied up in a storage shed is your idea of good parenting? You _are_ a twisted bastard."

He looked over at the kids. The boy was smiling, smirking, as though enjoying the whole spectacle. Dean's skin crawled. _Shit. Bet he pulls the wings off of flies and takes potshots at baby birds. Two of a kind here. _The older girl, though she hadn't made a sound, appeared on the brink of tears, and she clutched the smaller girl against her to hide her face from what was going on.

A hand suddenly gripped his hair, yanking his head up and around. "Listen to me, boy," the old man breathed uncomfortably close into his ear. "I might decide to keep you alive for a bit, but that doesn't mean I won't hurt you in the meantime. Keep your mouth shut or I will show you of what I am capable, what my lovely children can do. Do you hear me?" With a shake he let go, and Dean fought to stay upright. "By the way, Dean, no need to worry about your brother." The old man stood back and smiled slyly down at him. "He's just fine. In fact, he's having a little nap."

Dean felt himself sway as a cold, sick feeling swept over him. His knew his poker face had slipped by the way the old geezer's smile widened.

"Where's my brother?" he asked coldly, pulling the mask back on with an effort. He stared up, unblinking, into the old man's face. "What have you done with him?"

The old man walked leisurely around him again, but this time Dean kept his gaze forward.

"Your brother is no longer your concern. In fact, he is no longer your brother. Samuel is mine now, part of _my_ family. He doesn't need you anymore. Samuel will be so much better off without you, Dean. You can't help him with what's been happening. You know that's true."

_Samuel?_

His breath caught in his throat. Coincidence again? Not freakin' likely. They were stacking up like pancakes . . . .

The voice in Sammy's head.

_What had Sam said? Oh, yeah. "He just called me 'Samuel,' and that he was waiting."_

Oh, shit.

When the old man came to stop in front of him, Dean looked straight up into his eyes and, with a completely different fear clawing its way up his throat, said softly, clearly, _"Christo." _

No reaction but a puzzled frown. No pale eyes turning black.

_What the fuck? This bastard's human?_

Somehow that made it worse.

But Dean still had that weird itch between his shoulder blades. The Latin rose easily to his lips; he could do an exorcism in his sleep. Sam might normally do the speaking parts again these days, but after so many solo hunts over the past couple of years, the words now rolled off Dean's tongue without conscious thought.

When nothing happened, he switched seamlessly to a banishing spell in classical Greek. Still watching the old man, seeing anger replace the confusion, he went on until the man's hand swept out and cuffed him across the head, rocking him backwards. Even then, he spat out a couple of holy names in ancient Aramaic before the invisible fist grabbed him by the throat again.

"Listen to me," the cold voice hissed in his ear. "I don't know what filthy trash you're spouting, boy, but you will be silent. Do you hear me? I am more than happy to give you another demonstration of what I can and will do to you should you displease me."

He was close to blacking out again before he was released. Dragging air into his starving lungs, he waited for the spots to disappear from his vision.

"You . . . you're that fucking voice . . . in Sam's head," he said, still breathing raggedly. He raised his head enough to pin the old man with as much glare as one eye could muster. "You son . . . of a bitch! Where is he? What . . . have you done to Sam? What do you want with him?"

"Don't worry about Samuel, Dean. I would never hurt one of my children. I rather think you should be more worried about yourself. You are merely the means to an end, if it becomes necessary. Don't think I won't hesitate to kill you if you continue to annoy me."

"Where's. My. Brother?" He spat the words with icy precision.

"Forget about Samuel," the old man said, staring coldly down at him. "He's mine now. He has a new family, a new brother and sisters. He will be much happier with me – you know that, deep down. Samuel needs to be with people like himself, who understand him and how special his gifts are. _You_ don't, do you, Dean?" The old man's voice twined around his thoughts, finding all the dark places in his mind. The words seemed to echo in his skull even as he heard them aloud.

"You're afraid of him," the insidious whisper went on. Like poisoned honey. "Afraid of what he can do. And he knows that. He left you before, and this time he's not coming back. Ever. Your father? He's gone, too. You'll never find him, Dean. You'll be all alone. Always."

A numb horror seeped into him then, that this old man could see his fears so easily, take them and twist them and drag them out into the light. The vague memory of a dream surfaced, a dream of a voice sliding like silk through his mind, picking out odd bits and pieces of his screwed-up life like a scavenger seeking shiny trinkets and glinting scraps of metal amid the trash.

_Son of a bitch. He was in my head, just like he was in Sammy's. Poking around. _

He thought he just might throw up again, if there were anything still in his stomach. But he swallowed against the rising bile and lurched clumsily to his feet, fighting down the urge to pass out. Every muscle in his body seemed to pull and ache at the movement, his shoulders and arms straining against the rope that bound him. The old man watched in evident amusement at his struggles, even backing up a couple of paces to give him room as if curious to see if he could really make it.

Any second Dean expected to get smacked down again with that invisible whammy, but he'd been on his knees long enough in front of this crazy bastard, so he grit his teeth and forced himself to stand as straight as he could.

He drew a breath and put his game face on.

"You're a lying old piece of shit, Gomer. You been feeding Sam this same line of crap?" He listed awkwardly as the room spun for a moment, then shakily straightened up. "Trying to make him think he's a freak like you? That he _needs _you to show him the way to enlightenment or something? You are _so_ full of crap. He's nothing like you, and he sure as hell's not gonna join your little entourage of groupies."

"You will not address me in that fashion, boy, or continue to use that tone of voice," the old man said prissily, sounding more and more like a high school principal who enjoyed handing out detention.

"Oh, sorry," Dean sneered. "Have I upset your delicate sensibilities there, princess? Listen, you jackass, I want to see my brother, and I want to see him now. And if you've harmed one funky hair on his geeky little head, I will fucking kill you with my bare hands. Are we perfectly clear on that?"

By the time he finished, the words had risen to a raw shout, and he was so angry he no longer cared how much everything hurt.

The other man's eyes were cold, his face stiff. But Dean could see the rage beneath the surface. He'd gotten on the old goat's nerves, that was for damn sure. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. Oh, yeah, he had this guy's number. How far to push, though, that was the question.

"Either you are a remarkably foolhardy and stupid young man," came the measured reply after a careful pause, "or else you have no sense of self-preservation. Do you enjoy the pain I am inflicting on you? Do you really want to see how far I can take this, Dean? I'm warning you, boy –"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're the badass bad guy. Doctor Evil, Dr. No, and Darth Vader all rolled up in one fugly plaid flannel package. Gotcha, Pops."

He held his ground as the old man stepped closer. A chance glimpse of the red-haired girl behind the old man's back showed her fighting down an honest-to-God smile even as she shook her head in what appeared to be another attempt to warn him to be quiet. _Well, someone appreciates my rapier wit, at least._ He tossed her a quick wink, and saw her clap a hand over her mouth.

The old guy wheeled around.

"Paige?" he questioned, deceptively gentle. "Is there something you wish to share with us?"

Dean watched the color drain from the girl's face, and her hand fell away, no hint of a smile to be seen. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

"No, Father," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"_Father"? Is he freakin' serious? _

"If this man is bothering you in any way, you will tell me, Paige, yes? He's not one of us, my dear. Don't trust him. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good. We don't want any problems, do we, Paige?"

"Hey!" Dean said loudly. "Elmer! Pick on somebody your own size, you bastard. Or do you get your kicks terrorizing little girls?" He sneered. "Yeah, you seem like the type all right."

"Father" spun to face him again, and Dean took an involuntary wobbly step back.

_Uh, oh. Maybe I just found out how far is "too far." Maybe I am stupid with no sense of self-preservation. Who woulda thought._

"Enough!"

"Hit a sore spot there, dude?"

"Brian," the old man said and gestured, his stare never leaving Dean's face. "Come here, please. I need your further assistance."

"Yes, Father," the boy said easily, coming to stand beside him. An arm immediately settled around the boy's shoulders.

Dean suddenly felt like one of those flies the kid probably tore the wings off of as Brian studied him with interest.

"What do you want me to do to him, Father?" the kid asked, his cold eyes brightening with eagerness.

_Oh, shit._

"I want him on his knees, Brian, nice and still. And I want him quiet. Let him breathe this time, though. I think he should be conscious for this."

_Well, that doesn't sound good. . . ._

The kid cocked his head to one side, smiled, and Dean abruptly found himself shoved forcefully to his knees, his body bent almost double under a crushing weight.

The pain jolted through him, and he bit back the groan that wanted to slip out between his clenched teeth. He tried to shift, to alleviate some of the agony on his twisted shoulders but discovered he was as frozen as a statue. He swallowed and opened his mouth to swear.

Nothing.

_Dammit._

Helpless, he kept trying anyway, because he didn't know how not to. With a sudden empathy for stroke victims, he discovered that with a great deal of effort his facial muscles worked, sort of. He could blink, at least, and breathe, and that was pretty much it.

This kid was slamming him around as easily as he'd seen Max slam shut a door or float a gun in mid-air. A cold sweat broke out on his already clammy skin. Shit, kids like Max. And Sammy with his visions. What was the connection between these kids, and Sam, and this crazy old bastard?

_Worry about it later. Right now you've got your own troubles._

He glared daggers at the kid who, smiling and smug, turned his face up to the old man for approval.

"Well done, Brian," was the warm response. "Thank you. Rosa, my dear, it's your turn."

As Dean watched with growing unease, the little girl clung even tighter to Paige, burying her face in the other girl's shirt. Unease turned to anger. What the hell was this old bastard doing to – with – these kids?

_Kids with superpowers. Jesus, it's like X-Men on crack or something._

Dean desperately wanted to help Rosa, to help himself, and fought once more to move. Nothing. His complete helplessness only made him angrier. He cursed silently in his head, and supposed he should at least be grateful for breathing, but it was awful damn hard.

"Rosa," the command came again, less gentle. "Come now, there's a good girl." The old man stretched out one hand as he turned partially towards her and Paige. "And you, too, Paige. I think we should all work together on this . . . problem. It's an excellent opportunity for you girls to get in some practice."

Only able to move his eyes, Dean tried to follow what was happening. From his hunched position, he got a view of Paige as she moved slowly next to the old man, with Rosa, head still down, clutching tightly to Paige's hand. A muffled whimper, the first sound he'd heard her make, emerged, and it at once brought a sharp response from the old man calling himself Father.

"Rosa! Stop that sniveling this instant. Paige, keep her quiet, please." He turned in Dean's direction, as though confiding to another grown-up. "I do so despise a crying child."

_You fucking bastard. I will so take you down, you hear me? And I'm gonna enjoy every minute of it. _

Paige had been making frantic hushing noises, trying to soothe and comfort the younger girl, and Dean could see the old man's impatience rising in the form of a loudly tapping foot.

"Yes, yes, that's enough now. Come along, Rosa, or there will be no dessert for you tonight. Father needs you to do something for him, so stop that crying. At once."

The veneer of fatherly patience and kindness had vanished, worn through like Dean's faded, beat-up jeans, and with an exasperated snarl, the old man yanked on one of Rosa's sticklike arms and dragged her to stand in front of him. Keeping one hand firmly on the top of her head, he reached out to draw Paige closer, his other arm around her shoulders.

Dean could only watch.

Paige met his eyes, scared, pleading, imploring, he didn't know. She was still pale, and looked sick. Whatever was about to happen, neither she nor Rosa seemed to want to be a part of it.

And Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't care for it much, either.

Dean would've nodded at her, smiled, or shrugged, as if to say everything would be all right, but a faint version of his earlier wink was all he could manage.

She bit down hard on her quivering lower lip and gave him a small, careful nod in return before looking away again.

Hell, who knew; maybe she could read his mind.

"I _am _sorry about this, Dean," the old man said. "Truly. But you have only yourself to blame – I hope you realize that. It's too bad your father never really disciplined you properly. Well, we're going to take care of that, aren't we, my dears?"

They moved forward together, nearly on top of Dean, and his viewpoint was of little more than legs. A small hand, warm and soft, came to rest, trembling, on the back of his neck, barely brushing the short hair there.

And then, the pain started.

xxxxx

At first it didn't even hurt all that much. Not really. Spreading out from that gentle touch on the nape of his neck, it was more like the sensation he remembered sometimes having when he was sick with a bad cold. His skin would feel overly sensitive, and a mere touch would have him flinching. Now there was a tingle across his skin, the hair on his arms rose, and the tingling grew to a slight burning, tracing its way down his spine, around his torso, and legs, all the way to his toes.

The tingling/burning flowed back up, around his face, over his mouth and eyes. It seemed to stop and linger, as though seeking something, and slowly, inexorably, the already splintering pain from the bloody gash along his hairline grew until he thought he just might pass out. Then a spike of fire struck, driving deep, burning. His mouth opened on a silent cry, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

His trapped body trembled and spasmed without relief. Muscles twitched and limbs cramped, unable to move.

It went on and on. A scream lay trapped in his throat. Tears he could not hold back slid down his cheeks.

Through the blinding agony, over the sound of his harsh, panting breaths, the only sound he could make, he heard the old man's voice.

"I changed my mind, Brian. I think I would like to hear him scream. If you please."

"Yes, Father."

Something gave way inside whatever the kid did, and suddenly Dean felt the cry burst out of his throat, heard it, unable to restrain it. He choked it off, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, but unwilling to give the old bastard the satisfaction.

"Very well, Rosa. Enough for now."

In the next heartbeat, the deep spike of pain slid away. His head still throbbed like the mother of all migraines, but it was a relief compared to what it had been. He blinked away the tears of pain that still lingered, and found that his other eye was no longer glued shut with dried blood.

_Well, nice to have something good come out of all that, _he told himself with weary sarcasm.

"Oh, that worked quite nicely, didn't it, Dean?" The voice spoke with a note of clinical interest. "It always helps, I've noticed, if the patient is already experiencing some pain when we start. Gives me something to work with, you see. Now, what else do we have . . . . Come now, girls, pay attention."

The invisible fire continued to caress him, and all he could see in his mind's eye were hungry flames, swirling around him, consuming him like they had his mother, like Sam's Jessica. His stomach clenched.

"Oh, yes, there is something about fire, isn't there, Dean. All wrapped up in fear and rage and power. Very interesting. That _will _come in handy. Hm."

Dean felt a flicker of surprise. For all the guy's rummaging around in his head, the old bastard didn't know everything. Didn't _see_ everything.

Fire had taken his mother. He'd nearly lost Sam to it, just managing to pull him out of the burning apartment in Palo Alto. Sam wasn't the only one who woke from nightmares about that.

Fire killed, but it also cleansed.

Maybe he'd burn this evil bastard's bones before it was all over. Something to look forward to.

"_Go to hell,"_ Dean gasped, lifting his blurry gaze to meet the old man's, staring down at him in mild amusement.

"Still with the smart mouth, I see. Let's do something about that, shall we?"

The flames centered on the rising bruises on his chest, flared, and his body remembered the horrible pain of the electrocution, weeks ago in that dark, watery basement. His heart stuttered, faltered. He choked on a breath. Couldn't draw another.

"Oh, not yet, you don't. I'm not done with you."

It wasn't Sam's voice, begging him to hang on, to not go yet. So why should he listen?

His vision greyed out. The fire flickered, dampened.

But . . . Sam. He had to hang on for Sam, to find him, and get him out of here.

He didn't care what the old man wanted, but he wasn't gonna leave Sam. And the old man wasn't gonna _get _Sam, either. Not as long as he was around.

But it hurt. Oh God, it hurt so much, everywhere. It burned, inside and out, and he couldn't breathe . . . .

A sudden, shocking scream, high, loud, jolted him. A child's cry of terror, cut off, followed by harsh gulping whimpers.

Suddenly he was aware of falling; his numbed legs went sprawling, then drew up to his chest. His entire body convulsed and shook with the release.

Flurried action and unintelligible shouted words sounded from behind him, but he ignored everything except that he could move again. Sort of.

He rolled on his side, not even caring that he fell on his bad arm, coughing and gasping. His heart banged crazily, settled at last, and he could breathe once more without teetering on the verge of hyperventilating.

No more fire, anywhere. Just the memory of it.

"Rosa!"

The name was a barked yell.

"Stop that caterwauling this instant! Paige, do something about her. _Now."_

"She's just scared," came the tear-filled reply. "She's just a little girl, it hurts, and she's scared. Please, Father. Let me take her back to the house. Please. I'll put her to bed."

Dean raised his head, struggling to see. Shit, he wouldn't hurt her, would he? After all that talk about his precious and wonderful children . . . . Fighting dizziness and nausea, he made it to his knees, somehow, and grimaced at the thought of getting to his feet. With a wary eye on "Father" he started to try, only to stop when the old man finally spoke.

"Yes, she is just a little girl," he said, staring down at the quietly sobbing object of his dissatisfaction.

_Jesus, he sounds completely pissed. Like it's the kid's fault or something._

"Perhaps I have been expecting too much of her lately," he went on, still clearly annoyed. "Very well. Brian, you take her back to the cabin. Paige, you will stay with me. I think I have a few more things to discuss with Dean here."

"Yes, Father," Brian said sullenly.

Dean couldn't tell if Brian was angry because of the babysitting duty, or because he didn't want to miss out on the fun. Either way, the kid was obviously not willing to disobey an order.

Brain grabbed up the little girl's free hand, and the now silently crying Rosa only let go of Paige's when the other girl told her she'd be in soon.

When the door had shut behind them, the old man's attention came back to Dean. With a smile, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the old man sauntered over to him.

Dean sat back on his haunches, swaying a little, and waited.

"Well, well," the old man said, looking down at Dean. "What have we learned so far. It's all been rather interesting, hasn't it, Dean? From my perspective, at any rate. Yes, indeed. Quite satisfactory, despite having to end our session a littler earlier than I liked. There's always tomorrow, though, eh? And I still have Paige here to help me with things. She's such a good girl, aren't you, Paige? Always does what I ask." He turned to her, expectantly.

"Yes, Father," she whispered, her eyes on the floor.

"What's next, Fred?" Dean said, staring back at him, not bothering to hide the disgust. His mouth curled up in a sneer. "Gonna make another little girl cry there, tough guy? You are one sick and sorry son of a bitch, you know that? Can't wait to get my hands on you. Twisted bastard."

"Really, Dean. Haven't you learned anything at all from this? You can't hurt me. Whereas I, on the other hand, can kill you quite easily, in any number of ways. But not yet, as I said." The head tilted, the pale eyes studied him. "You are, unfortunately, really quite pathetically ordinary. Unlike your brother. However . . . ." The old man's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "There is something about you that burns quite brightly. Yes, indeed. Different from Samuel, to be sure, but perhaps I can make use of it yet. You never know."

Dean stared at him. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Samuel and the other children. They all burn in the darkness, if one knows how to look. Oh my yes. All different colors, so bright, so beautiful. And I know how to look, you see. I can find them. With my mind's eye, Dean, my inner eye. It's my gift, you see." He smiled gently, as though imparting a great wisdom. "To See, you understand? I find them, and I bring them to me. To show them how to use their gifts and make them stronger than they are. It is my calling, to find the children in the dark who need my help, to rescue them from those who do not understand their gifts."

"Riiiiiiight," Dean drawled. "I think you need to cut back on the peyote there, Gramps. And maybe quit reading so much Carlos Castaneda. Are you gonna teach me how to balance my chakras next? Maybe read my aura? Do some channeling?"

Even as the old man's face tightened in anger, the door to the shed banged open, and Brian charged in.

"Father!" he said, nearly bowling the man over in his urgency. "You've got to come! I think he's waking up!"

"No, it's too soon," he replied, shaking his head. "You must be imagining things, Brian."

"Honest, Father, I heard him making noises. Talking."

"Very well." With a glance at Dean, the old man turned to Paige. "Stay here and keep an eye on him. I'll be back in a moment. Try to learn something useful, my dear."

He followed Brian out the door and shut it behind him, and Dean heard the sound of a lock snicking back into place.

Dean looked at Paige.

Could he take down a pudgy, gawky teenage girl with both hands tied behind his back? And make a run for it? Getting past a door locked from the outside? On a good day, sure, no problem. At the moment . . . .

The girl stared back at him.

"Are you all right?" she at last ventured quietly. Eyes reddened, cheeks pale, she looked ill and faint. "He really hurt you."

He shook his head. "I'm okay."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, edging closer. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to, but . . . ."

"It's all right," he replied, also speaking quietly, giving her what he hoped was a charming smile. But the blood all over the side of his face probably wasn't helping any. "It's not your fault."

She tossed a quick look over her shoulder at the door, and he saw the shudder that went through her. "Please," she said softly. "You've got to help us. _Please."_

"Where's my brother?" he asked, ignoring her wide begging eyes for the moment. "Where are we, and how long have I been stuck in this goddamn shed? And what's that old bastard gonna do to Sam?"

She gulped, and crouched awkwardly down next to him. "He's all right," she said, keeping her voice low. "Father made him go to sleep after he got out of the car. But if he's waking up, Father will just put him to sleep again until he's ready to talk to him. He won't hurt your brother – Father wants to use him, like he does us."

Dean felt something unknot inside him even as he twisted the ropes binding his wrists. "Where are we?"

She shrugged helplessly, pushing her glasses higher up on her nose. "I'm not sure. Some cabin in the woods, on a lake. It was dark when we got here. We didn't drive very far after we picked you up, and you've only been here a couple of hours."

"Where's my car? Our stuff?"

"Here. He called a tow truck and said it was his car, that he'd slid off the road during the storm."

Another knot unwound. Weapons and a means of escape. Now he just had to get out of these damn ropes, and out of this damn shed, and find Sammy. Piece of cake.

"He's . . . not really your dad, is he?" he asked.

A quick shake of her head and another shudder answered his question even before she spoke. "No, he just makes us call him 'Father' because he wants us to be his kids, his weirdo adopted family or something."

He studied her face. "Why should I trust you?" he asked. "Help you? Aren't you working for him?"

"No." She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. "No, no, no. He left me here with you alone 'cause _he_ doesn't trust _me. _I . . . I tried to get away, before.This is a test, I think. A trap. He wants me to find things out about you, things he can use against you. Or your brother. That's what he does, you see? He gets in your head, scrambles your thoughts around, makes you think things that aren't yours, makes you believe stuff. It's getting harder all the time, don't you see? Harder to fight, and tell the difference between what you think and what he puts there and _wants_ you to think." The words tumbled out, breathless. "He's crazy, and I want to go home, and I have to get Rosa out of here before he does something horrible to her, to us both, and I just want to go _home,_ please, can you help us?"

"Paige . . . ." God, how did he ask this? She was just a kid. He licked his lips. "Is he . . . I mean, what is he –"

"It's not what you're thinking. He's not doing _that. _He . . . uses us. Takes what we can do, and makes it . . . awful. To do things." She couldn't meet his eyes. "Like what he made us do to you."

"You've got the mojo? But he's running the show?"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath, and hesitantly looked up again. "Creepy, huh?"

"He found you with his x-ray vision or whatever the hell he was going on about? And just took you away from your family?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice breaking on the word. "About a month ago. Rosa before me, and Brian even longer."

"Okay," he said, wondering if she knew about puppy dog eyes and his inability to say "no" to them. "We'll all get the hell out of here and away from the crazy old bastard." A deep breath, followed by a wince, and he added, "But you gotta help me first, sweetheart, 'cause I can't do a thing tied up in here." He grunted a bit as he shifted, uncurling his stiff legs from beneath him and stretching them out. God, his knees were _not _happy. "Here." He waggled his right boot. "Got a knife in here. On the inside of my ankle. He could be back any second, so let's get goin'."

She bit her lip, but gave him a firm nod. "Okay." She slid her fingers into his right boot and felt around. "Stop squirming."

"Stop tickling."

"You have stinky feet," she informed him, fishing out the switchblade and opening it up. "Here. Now what?"

"Start cutting."

Still, she hesitated, throwing another look over at the door.

"What . . . what if he comes back?" she asked.

"I'll tell him I started cutting before you guys came in here. Look, he never even bothered to check the ropes. That old geezer won't know the difference." He cracked a smile. "Not very good at this, is he?"

That earned him an almost-smile in return, then she moved around behind him, and he felt her fingers poke gingerly at the ropes.

"What is it you do, anyway?" Dean craned his head around as far as he could to watch her. "What's your amazing, secret superpower?"

"Oh, right. Superpower." She rolled her eyes.

"Come on, you can tell me. I got a brother with a freaky brain, don't forget."

"Um," she said, sounding suddenly shy as she bent over his wrists. "Sometimes I can sorta tell what people are thinking. I can't read minds," she added, forestalling his next question, making him believe she really could read his mind, "but I can get a feel for . . . emotions, I guess. When someone's really lying, or if they're angry or sad deep down or whatever." He could almost hear the embarrassed smile in her voice as she went on. "I could always do it, and I thought everybody else could, too. When I found out not, I learned real fast to keep my mouth shut. Nobody likes a freak, you know?"

"Yeah," he agreed quietly, meeting her eyes with clear understanding as she looked up. "I know."

He felt her hands on his wrists as she looked for a spot to begin using the knife. "Your head is all bashed and bloody, you know. You really look terrible."

"Never, sweetheart. No matter what."

"Jeez, you're full of it."

He grinned. The little knife began sawing away.

"Look, can you talk to Sam? Tell him I'm here, that I'm all right?"

"It'll be hard . . . but I can try," she said slowly. "He never leaves us alone. Not really. Or else that creepy weasel Brian's watching." He felt her fingers tremble. "And Father always locks me and Rosa in at night, in our room, wherever we're at."

"Just see what you can do, huh?"

"Okay." The cutting motion faltered. "You're all bloody," she said, her voice even lower.

"It's okay, Paige, come on, now," he soothed, even as every bone and instinct in his aching body screamed that the clock was ticking and they were running out of time. "You can do this."

The knife slipped and it nicked his skin.

"Sorry," she winced. "Sorry."

Before he could reassure her again, a noise at the door alerted them both. He felt Paige's fingers fumble with the knife and she let out a gasp and a softly muttered, "Oh, shit."

"Put it in my pocket," he hissed.

She managed to fold the knife shut and slide it into a back pocket before scurrying around in front of him just as the door swung open.

"Well, if it isn't Daddy Dearest," Dean said, as the old man entered the shed. "Hey, how's Sam doin'? Did he wake up and try to kick your sorry ass?"

That got him an annoyed raised-eyebrow look. "It's quite fortunate for you that Rosa is too tired for any more lessons tonight."

"Yeah, yeah. What about my brother?"

"He is no longer your brother, and thus no longer your concern." His glance slid to the girl. "Paige, my dear, do you have anything to share with me?"

Dean very carefully kept his gaze on the old man, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Paige studying the floor and ignoring Dean. _Good girl, _he thought approvingly.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and fluttered a hand. "It's harder without you here to help, Father," she said earnestly, looking up. "All I could get from him was how much he's worried about his brother, and that he wants to see him. And . . . ."

Dean bit back a smile at her dramatic, hesitant pause, wondering if she was just making it up as she went along, or if she really had plucked a few thoughts from his addled head. She was right on the money so far.

"Yes?" the old man asked, almost eager. "What? Go on, my dear."

"He's really mad at you," she said in a rush. "A _lot."_

"Ah." The old man paced a slow circle around Dean. "No surprise there."

Dean casually tried to turn his wrists so the cuts on the rope wouldn't show. He gave the old man a dead-eyed stare when he stopped in front of him again, looking down.

"What did you do to Sam?" he asked in a voice so dark and feral he didn't even recognize it.

"Samuel is all tucked up in bed and sleeping peacefully once again. I believe morning will be soon enough for introductions and explanations." A slow, anticipatory smile spread across his face. "I think that tomorrow when he wakes, I'll tell him you're dead. Killed in the crash. Very tragic. Yes, that should do quite nicely for starters."

"You son of a _bitch,_" Dean snarled, unable to leash in his anger. He darted a quick look at Paige, and met her eyes. _Tell Sam I'm okay. Please!_

"But now, Dean," the old man went on, "it's time for you to go to sleep as well."

"Father" reached out and splayed his fingers across Dean's forehead before Dean could protest. A swift rush of darkness overtook him, and he distantly felt himself fall sideways to the floor. And then everything was gone.

TBC . . .

xxxxx

A/N 2: I know – I keep ending chapters with Dean falling unconscious. Don't ask me how that happens . . . . Hope this made up for his absence in the previous two installments!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: A thousand, thousand apologies to the four, perhaps even six, people who are still following this story…Lame excuses include a) distraction by another writing project with a deadline; b) a case of the mid-winter blahs which led to extreme writer's block and disinterest in anything creative; and c) the aforementioned writing project which made it hard to get back into this story. Argh.

Added to that, I'm quite possibly the slowest writer on the planet.

So huge thanks to Angela and Rhiannon, because without them I would still be beating my head against this chapter, which somehow turned into a massive brick wall. They saved me from a severe concussion with their wonderful FB and comments and beta-ing and encouragement and prodding and everything else. You guys are great!

xxxxx

Chapter 6

A sharp pain, insistent and repeated, woke him, dragging him out of his comforting darkness. His head lolled as another stinging slap met his cheek. Groggy, groaning, he tried to move; to at least put up a hand to fend off the next blow, but for some reason his hands weren't cooperating.

"Wake up, Dean."

_Slap._

His eyelids flickered as his head rocked sideways again.

"I know you're in there somewhere, boy. Now open those pretty eyes of yours."

_Slap._

Harder, the hand cracked across his jaw and mouth. And once more, sending a spike of agony through his skull. He licked blood from his newly split lip and raised his throbbing head, forcing his eyes open. Disoriented, his blurred vision slowly cleared and he squinted up into the pale blue eyes of the man calling himself "Father."

"Ah, Jesus," Dean rasped, his voice a dry croak. "Not you again, Pops."

The dizziness at last receded enough for him to figure out the reason for his current inability to move. He sat in a sturdy chair facing the door, bound firmly, ropes cutting tightly into his raw wrists and – due to the fact his boots and socks were gone – his bare ankles. When the hell had _that_ happened? He hazily remembered – he'd woken up, right? And unable to get to his pocketknife, his hands clumsy, he'd used . . . something . . . the lawnmower blades? Somehow, he was pretty sure he'd gotten loose . . . and then . . . what?

"So lovely to see you again, Dean." The old man's voice broke into his fractured memories. "I'm delighted you could join us this morning," he went on, rather too chattily and cheerful. "I think we shall have some quality time together before Samuel wakes up." He backed up a step, drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket, and fussily proceeded to wipe the blood from his hand.

"Didn't think you . . . went in for . . . the personal touch, there, Gomer," Dean said, feeling the trickle of blood from his lip ooze down his chin. Darkness threatened at the edges of his vision, and he had to concentrate on getting his next words out. "Got bored with using little kids, huh?"

"Oh, I assure you, the children still have their part to play," the old man said. "But sometimes . . . sometimes one must really take matters into one's own hands. I'm sure you can understand that, Dean. And sometimes –" he smiled down at Dean, his eyes tracing the blood on Dean's face with a strange hunger. "I do so enjoy it." He gestured at the chair. "As you can see, some extra precautions have been taken. Imagine my consternation when I came in not long ago and found you with your hands free. And a knife in your pocket. Dear me. You are just full of surprises."

Dean's fingers twitched. He _knew_ he hadn't dreamed that whole damn episode. Oh, yeah . . . .

_Inching his way across the floor, hoping like hell he had picked the right direction as he searched, fumbling and awkward, and at last finding the old lawnmower in the dark. Holding his breath as he gently sawed the ropes against the blade. Trying not to cut a damn artery in the process. The sudden fiery blaze of pins and needles as the blood rushed into his arms when the ropes parted, his stiffened limbs falling leaden and useless to the floor as he swore and gasped at the pain._

And then, dammit, he must've fainted like a little girl before he could do anything else.

"I just may have underestimated you, Dean," the old man was saying, "impossible though that sounds. There seems to be more to you than meets the eye. You've managed to wake up twice now before you should have. Simply fascinating."

"Aw, gee, Gramps," Dean said, reaching with difficulty for his usual armor of sarcasm. "I'm . . . flattered."

His vision wavered. The lightheaded feeling was not going away, and he was finding it increasingly hard to focus. He tried not to think of water, sliding down his parched throat; pushed away the thought of curling up in a warm bed . . . . And though his clothes had finally dried during the night, he was shivering uncontrollably. Chilled, growing feverish. Maybe not as serious as the fever he'd suffered through thanks to the revenant's tainted blade . . . but – crap.

He'd be no use to Sam if he got sick. Or stayed tied to a chair.

The rustling of a canvas tarp and the sound of something scraping across the concrete floor had him blinking his eyes open to see "Father" dragging over another chair. Placing it a couple of feet in front of Dean, the old man used the handkerchief stained with Dean's blood to wipe off the seat before sitting down. With a sniff he tossed the dirty cloth on the floor. Folding his hands in his lap, crossing one leg over the other, he studied Dean with interest for a long moment.

Dean stared back and didn't so much as twitch.

"Dean," the old man finally said, with a smile. "How _are_ you feeling this morning, hm? Not doing so well, I gather. Dehydration setting in? Hypothermia?" He cocked his head, pursing his lips. "Hmm, maybe not quite yet. Chills, obviously. As for that head wound . . . . Yes, there really are some rather lovely bruises beneath all the blood. It's quite possible you have a mild concussion. Oh, and I would guess it's safe to say you're feeling a tad hungry, yes?"

_Yeah,_ Dean thought sourly. _That pretty much sums it up, you old bastard. _

Not that he'd give the old bastard the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Well," Dean drawled, raising an eyebrow, "I sure wouldn't say 'no' to a cup of coffee. Black, if you don't mind."

"Oh, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean." The old man shook his head, sighing. "That mouth of yours. When will you learn? It only gets you into trouble, surely you can see that. And of course, that leads me into a discussion of the, ah, psychological aspects of your condition. Don't like being tied up, do we, Dean? Feeling a loss of control? A sense of vulnerability? My, my," he chuckled, and flicked his fingers at Dean. "All that bravado just to cover up the fact you're at my mercy. Terrified. Helpless. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Dean made a show of yawning and slouched as much as the ropes would allow him. "Yeah, whatever." He subtly flexed his ankles against the ropes binding him to the chair legs. Maybe a little give . . . . Later. Work on it later. First things first. "I want to see my brother. You keep telling me you're not gonna hurt him, that he's all right – I want to see him with my own eyes."

"You are hardly in a position, boy, to be making demands."

"I want to see Sam," he repeated. "Because if anything's happened to him, I _will_ hurt you. A lot." And though he knew it was a bad idea, that he should be playing this game a whole lot smarter, he couldn't seem to help it. He kept talking. With a calculated smirk. "I might just waste you anyway, on principle. 'Cause you wear ugly plaid shirts that even Sam wouldn't be caught dead in. 'Cause you're a mean sonuvabitch who terrorizes little kids. And I really don't like you, Gomer. Not very much at all."

The blow across his face was no open-handed slap this time – this was the old man's fist striking hard. Dean's head rebounded from the back of the chair, his ears ringing. Though there was nothing in his stomach, he swallowed against the nausea that threatened and blinked away the black spots in his vision.

He managed to lift his eyes to see the old man standing over him, breathing heavily, fist raised as though about to strike again.

"No," the old man said softly, dropping his hand, rubbing at it, visibly calming himself. "No. That would be too easy. My girls are waiting outside, Dean. I think they should come in and say 'hello' don't you? Pick up where we left off last night. Rosa has gotten over her – shall we say, little tantrum? – and I'm sure she is ready to try again."

"Oh, yeah," Dean ground out. "More . . . the merrier. Can't have a party . . . without some chicks."

That earned him a slap. He'd seen it coming, though, and the other man's fingertips just grazed his cheek as he swayed away.

His chin was at once caught in a hard grip, the fingers squeezing his jaw with bruising force. "Dean," the old man said with a sorrowful shake of his head, looking down at him. "I don't know what it is about you, but it is very regrettable that you seem to bring out the worst in me. This is all your own fault, boy."

The old man's thumb began to slide slowly over Dean's bleeding lip. Dean tried to twist away, but the old man's hand held tight.

Dean wanted to growl. He couldn't even bite the bastard.

Another slow stroke and the blood smeared down Dean's chin.

His skin crawled at the perverse intimacy of the gesture, but he somehow kept his face still.

The old man finally let go, and he gave Dean a cold smile. "All your own fault," he repeated. "I hope you understand that."

He returned the smile with silence and a flat stare.

_I'm so gonna nail your ass to the shed door, Gomer. Really lookin' forward to that._

"Oh, dear," the old man sighed, gazing at his now-bloodied hand. "I seem to find myself out of clean handkerchiefs. You don't mind, do you, Dean? No, of course not."

He leaned in and used the sleeve of Dean's shirt to wipe his hand. Dean maintained his forward stare and didn't move a muscle.

"Well, it will just have to do for now," he said straightening and carefully studying his fingernails. "But first, I think it's time for the girls."

As the old man walked over to the door, Dean quickly tested the ropes on his wrists, tensing, turning, gritting his teeth as the fiber bit deeply into the abraded skin. Fresh blood seeped from the wounds as he twisted his hands.

And then "Father" was back again, ushering the girls through the door with a beaming smile, all traces of his earlier fury wiped away.

Dean met Paige's gaze. There was little but utter misery in the girl's eyes, and she looked like she hadn't slept. She was wearing the same jeans and sweatshirt she'd had on yesterday, and her curly hair was a matted snarl as though the old man had just dragged her out of bed. Rosa again appeared to be glued to Paige's side, head down and quiet.

"Rosa," Dean said, ignoring "Father" to focus on the little girl. "Rosa, sweetheart, this isn't your fault, all right?" He kept his voice low and calm. "I know you'd never hurt anyone. Whatever happens, _this isn't your fault. _It's _Father's,_ not yours –"

The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed loudly in the small room, and Dean jerked against the ropes as his head snapped back. He thought he heard a stifled cry from one of the girls.

"Enough! You will be silent!"

Dean glared up at the fuming old man and leaned sideways to spit out a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

"Or what?" he mocked, baring his teeth and widening his eyes as if surprised. "You're gonna _hurt_ me? How original. Thought that was the plan already, Pops."

"I've barely started with you, boy," the old man threatened, herding the two girls closer. "You'll be begging for mercy, for your mother, for death." But a heartbeat later, he once again appeared to have reined himself in. He lightly patted Rosa on the top of her head, smiled and said, "Let's get started, shall we, girls?"

With one arm resting around Paige's shoulders, old man firmly placed Rosa's hand on the bare skin of Dean's arm, linking them all together. Dean took a breath and braced himself for the pain that was to come. At least he knew what to expect this time; he could ride it out. _Be one with the_ _pain, Grasshopper . . . . Sure, no problem._ _Unless the old man decides to screw around with my heart again, just for fun._ His mouth went even drier, and he swallowed. .

_Hang on, that's all you have to do. Hang on. And get to Sammy._

He breathed deep again, looked up, and blinked. From beneath her long hair, Rosa peeked back at him. Her face showed little expression beyond a wary caution, but her dark eyes met his without fear before dropping to the floor again.

Her tiny hand felt warm where it rested on his skin and, against the corded muscle of his forearm, oddly innocent and vulnerable.

"It's not your fault," he whispered to her bowed head.

The first flicker of pain began to crawl over him, through him. Dean closed his eyes and fought to build up his walls, to shut it all out. But it continued to grow, flaring stronger and finding his existing hurts. Head, arm, ribs, chest. He felt the sweat break out on his face, and he clenched his jaw.

_Show me where it hurts, Dean. All the wounds. The scars and the pain and the ugliness. Everything you keep inside. All the fears. You can show me, Dean . . . ._

The whisper twisted through his mind even as the pain traced through his body. He shuddered at the cold, coaxing malice in that voice and shoved back at it with a silent, furious scream. _Shut the hell up, you bastard! _

Laughter. That, and the fire settling lazily around his right arm, teasing delicately at the stitches Sam had put there with such care just a couple of days ago. He felt again the burn of the revenant's knife, the fever that had raged through him thanks to the tainted blade.

"Oh, no, not yet," came a faraway voice. "We'll save that for later, shall we?"

The searing tendril obligingly slid away and wrapped around his ribs and chest instead. Contracting, crushing. He fought for breath.

_Hang on, hang on, _he repeated desperately to himself. _Hang on, and find Sammy. Don't think of the pain. There's no pain. Really. Think of something else._

Metallica's _Fade to Black _rose in his mind, and though he briefly wondered what his subconscious was trying to tell him, he seized on the lyrics like a lifeline, hearing every note and crashing chord. The pain didn't lessen, but he drifted above it. Floating with the music in his head, he turned it up good and loud – just like in the Impala when he felt a big-brother urge to annoy Sam for no reason – to drown out the sound of his shallow, gasping breaths. _Fade to Black _soon flowed into _Escape, _and he had only begun _For Whom the Bell Tolls _when –

The pain stopped, cut off, and he sagged forward, gasping, sucking in air. Over the blood pounding in his ears, he became dimly aware of raised voices. He heard his brother's name.

Frantic, Dean struggled to get his eyes open, and saw Brian gesturing, "Father" nodding, and then the old man turned to stare down at him with a narrow-eyed smile.

"Samuel appears to be awake, Dean. Though I'm sorry to leave you before we've really had a chance to talk, well, I think you can understand that Samuel comes first. But I'll leave the girls here to keep you company for a bit, and then I'll be back." The smile grew crafty. "Showtime, Dean. I can hardly wait. Let's see how Samuel reacts to the tragic news of your death. Oh, yes, I _am _going to enjoy this."

"You _bastard,_" Dean ground out, angrily pulling at the ropes on his wrists. He jerked savagely against the restraints and twisted in the chair, unable to do anything more than rock it a little. "He won't . . . believe you," he panted, glaring. "Sam's too smart . . . for that. He'll have you all . . . figured out before you can . . . blink. You . . . crazy old sonuvabitch."

"What, you don't think he'll believe the kindly Good Samaritan who stopped on the side of the road to help you boys out?" His upright posture rounded into a loose slouch and he shoved his hands into his pockets. The old man's voice shifted, the crisp, educated accent became a slow drawl when he spoke again. "Now, young fella," he said with an upraised eyebrow. "I dunno what you think's the matter, but I'm only lookin' out for Samuel. I hate to be the bearer of such bad news to the boy, I really do, but I know he'll be just fine with me an' the children. I'll take care of him, don't you worry none."

"Sam won't believe you!" Dean said again, breathing shallowly to ease the agony in his ribs. "He's . . . not a little kid you can frighten . . . or brainwash with that . . . line of crap you're selling, you hear me?"

The old man laughed. "I'm so glad I decided not to kill you right away, Dean. It's going to be such a treat to break you." He put a hand on Brian's shoulder. "Come, Brian. We'll let the girls stay here, but you and I have some work to do."

Brian nodded, smiling eagerly. "Yes, Father."

"Leave Sam alone, you bastard!" Dean continued to fight, ignoring the damage the ropes were doing to his wrists and ankles, ignoring the splintering pain in his skull. He could worry about it all later, when he and Sam were far away from here.

The expression "Father" directed his way was that of an overindulgent parent somewhat amused by the antics of a misbehaving child.

"Yeah, laugh it up, you psycho," he snarled. "I hope you're laughing when Sam kicks your ass."

The amused expression fell away. "Brian, I believe Dean needs to be reminded just who is in charge here. Let's show him, shall we?"

Before Dean could even open his mouth to crack out a comeback to that, the boy simply looked at him. An invisible sledgehammer impacted with his chest and punched all the air from his lungs. The blow shoved him violently into the back of the chair, snapping his head hard in a sharp whiplash. The pressure on his chest mounted, and he fought to breathe, coughing and gasping. Pain radiated outward from his sternum, setting his bruises alight, and making his heart stutter wildly.

Over the sound of his strangled breaths, he heard the old man's voice, full and satisfied.

"That's the trick, eh, Brian? Well done. Well done, indeed. We make an excellent team, don't we, my boy?"

Dean managed to raise his sagging head and squinted up, vision fuzzy, to see the old man turn to Paige.

"I will expect you to have something for me, Paige, when I return," he said, over by the door.

If she answered, Dean didn't hear. His head had fallen forward again, far too heavy to hold up any longer. His heart rate slowly steadied, but he still felt as though he'd been kicked in the chest by a mule. The rest of him wasn't real happy, either. The list of symptoms the old man had rattled off with such amusement was all too accurate.

Chills. Developing fever. Blood loss. Bruises. Possible concussion. And who knew what the hell else, thanks to all of the old bastard's little fun and games.

Shit. He was a mess.

When he felt a hand settle lightly on his arm, he couldn't stop the slight flinch that went through him. But there was no pain, just warm fingers closing gently around his wrist above the ropes.

"Dean?" The voice shook, just a little, and so did the fingers. "He's gone, Dean. Wake up. Please, just wake up. Please . . . ."

"Yeah," he coughed. Lifting his head just enough, he met Paige's eyes, huge and scared behind her glasses, and glimpsed Rosa sitting huddled on the floor behind her "Yeah, I'm . . . okay." He shifted as much as he could within the ropes, quietly groaning as he tried to ease some of the aches and cramps in his muscles. "What happened? What . . . time is it?"

Paige's hand tightened a bit. "It's morning. Around eight o'clock or so, I think." Without a word from him, she began to try working her fingers under the rope on his left wrist. "Dean," she said quietly, pausing to look at him. "Do you still have your knife?"

Knife? He frowned. Oh, yeah. And shook his head. "Bastard found it."

"Well, crap."

"Yeah, that . . . pretty much says it all."

He looked on with rather offhand interest as she picked at the knot.

"What . . . what do you know about Sam?" he asked, struggling to stay alert, to keep it together. "Is he all right?"

"Brian was watching him while we were in here. You heard Brian come in, right?" Paige looked up uncertainly, caught his nod, and went on. "Sam woke up, and Father went to . . . talk to him."

"Shit," Dean muttered, staring up at the ceiling. "He's gonna tell Sammy I'm dead."

"I'll try to tell him you're all right, somehow. But . . . ." She gave a helpless shrug. "Like I said, Father watches. Brian watches."

"Okay, just . . . do what you can." His head wanted to droop.

Paige gave up on the left wrist with a quietly mumbled curse that made him smile in spite of his split lip.

"Did you get loose last night after we left?" she asked. "How'd you wound up like this?" She gestured at him as she crouched to study the ropes binding his ankles. Her experimental tug showed those knots to be just as tight.

Dean pulled in a slow breath, all too aware of the bruises on his chest, and looked down at the top of Paige's head. "Last thing I remember was cutting the ropes with the lawnmower blades. Woke up this way. Gramps must've found me sometime during the night. Early this morning. Whatever." Straining uselessly against the knots, he added, "Doesn't that psycho bastard ever sleep?"

"Not that I've noticed. Creepy, huh?" Straightening and turning away in exasperation, she made a slow turn of the room, staring at the shelves. "There's gotta be something around here I can cut these ropes with. Since the lawnmower's gone, that is," she added, waving at the empty space where it had stood.

"Damn. I really liked that lawnmower."

"What else, what else . . . ." Lifting up one of the dusty tarps she peered beneath it. "Huh." She dropped the tarp with a sneeze. "Nothing much."

"Tools? Gardening stuff?" he said, trying to remember what he'd seen before. "Something metal. Or glass, maybe . . . ."

As he watched, Paige moved to the sagging shelves and rummaged frantically through the odds and ends cluttering them up, on tiptoe to reach the top. With a noise of frustration, she stood back for a moment, head tipped to one side. "Hey, Dean."

It took him a little longer to respond this time. "Yeah?"

"Does all this," she waved her hand at the shelves, "look different?"

He squinted, running his eyes over the tarps and scattered piles of junk. "Huh," he said, eyebrows going up. "Good eye, kiddo. Think you're right. Don't s'ppose ol' Gomer came in and found all the good stuff already, do ya? Besides the lawnmower, I mean. Didn't want me tryin' to get loose again."

"Well, _crap_," Paige uttered again, with even more heartfelt venom. She pushed her glasses up her nose as she turned to give him a look. "Why do you call him 'Gomer,' anyway?"

"'Cause I'm sure as hell not calling him 'Father.' Besides," Dean grinned, immediately regretting it as the motion pulled on his lip, "it pisses him off."

"Yeah," she nodded. "You're really good at that."

"It's a skill."

That earned him a smile, little more than a twitch of her lips, but it was better than the pinched, pale expression of barely concealed fear and worry that she'd worn almost constantly since he first laid eyes on her.

_We're gonna get out of here,_ he told himself. _You and Rosa, Sammy and me. I promise._

But first . . . . He stared past her shoulder, just above where she was once again searching. "Flowerpots."

"Flowerpots?" She paused long enough to throw him a puzzled glance, then followed the direction of his gaze. "Oh! Flowerpots." Paige grabbed one of the terra cotta pots from the shelf over her head and dropped it on the floor, scattering broken pieces large and small. "Like that?"

Dean winced at the noise.

"It's okay," she said hurriedly. "Cabin's far enough away. They won't hear anything."

"All right." He nodded. "Find a couple of sharp ones."

Picking up a few good-sized pieces, she swept the rest of the shards under a tarp with her foot and came back over to him to start sawing determinedly at the rope on his wrist.

"Paige . . . ."

"Shut up. I'm working here."

She bent over him in tense concentration, one hand steadying his arm, the other stubbornly sawing the potshard across the rope again and again.

It would probably take forever.

"Can you answer a couple of questions while you're rescuing me?"

He couldn't see her face, but he heard that same small twitch of a smile in her voice that he'd seen on her face. "I can try."

"Just how much is that old geezer getting out of my head?" He flapped the hand she wasn't working on cutting free. "How can I make plans to get us out of here if he can pick my brain anytime he feels like it?"

"Father –" She took a second to give him a quick glance from under her hair before getting back to her task. "The . . . old geezer," she started again, "can't really do that. It's, um, me, mostly. But remember I told you – I can't read minds. I just kinda pick things up. When he's going through me, to use me . . . use what I can do . . . he can see, I guess, what I see, or feel, but not everything. I've figured out how to, um, hide stuff."

Her fingers slowed, stopped, and she sank down to sit on her heels, still clutching the shard of pottery. Without meeting his gaze, she said, softly, "I'm sorry I had to let him know stuff about you. I didn't want to, but I had to show him bits and pieces or he would've guessed something was up."

Dean's throat knotted up, and he felt sick. Too much darkness in him for a thirteen-year-old girl to see. Too many horrors and nightmares filled with fire and blood and death. It was a wonder she'd even been able look him in the eyes, much less care about wanting to help him.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Now she did look up, her blue eyes meeting his without flinching. "You have scary . . . dreams, but I won't ever tell him. About any of them."

"Sorry you had to see 'em," he said quietly.

"Anyway." She took a deep breath and started up again on the ropes. "He can't get stuff _from_ you. Fath – Gomer . . . he gets _in _your head, puts stuff there. He . . . _pushes. _That's how he steals a car from somebody, or takes things from a store. Or makes people believe we're all really his kids. He gets people to think it was their idea to give whatever it is to him, or act the way he wants them to. That's what . . . Irene said."

"Who's Irene?" Dean asked.

The chunk of former flowerpot skittered across the floor as it fell from her suddenly shaking hand.

"Paige?"

And then she was leaning against his leg, head down, one hand curled tightly around his knee. Rosa crept close from where she'd been sitting silently all this time, and Paige gathered her up with the arm that wasn't wrapped around Dean.

"Paige?" he said again, feeling helpless. "Never mind, it's all right. Okay?"

He heard a sniffle, and suddenly wished for Sam to be the one here with a teenage girl glued to his leg, crying into his jeans.

"She . . . was another girl, with us," she whispered after a long moment. "She's not . . . here anymore."

"Where . . .?" He trailed off as he saw her shaking her head. Suddenly assuming the worst, his mind conjuring up images of a dead girl's body dumped in a ditch somewhere, he swallowed his anger so she wouldn't hear it. "You don't have to say anything else," he said hoarsely. Whatever had happened to this girl, it was just one more nail in "Father's" coffin.

Paige nodded against his leg, and he heard a muffled hiccup of a sob before she let go of him. She quickly wiped her eyes, gently freed herself from Rosa's grip, and picked up the other piece of flowerpot she'd saved.

"This'll never work," she said in despair, looking from the jagged shard of pottery in her hand to the ropes on his wrists. "You know it's crazy. Why am I even trying . . . ."

"Paige, listen to me." He leaned forward as much as he could and caught her weary gaze with his own, trying to push aside the constant pain and exhaustion. Though he could feel his strength continuing to ebb, he figured he could keep himself together long enough to bolster the girl's spirits. "Look, you've held out against this psycho for a whole month. You're tougher and stronger than you think, okay? We can do this. _You_ can do this. Maybe not with that," he said, nodding at the piece of broken flowerpot in her hand. "But we're gonna get out of here. All of us. We're gonna make it, okay? We're a great team."

"You can't see yourself," she whispered, looking at him. Worn defeat had replaced the determination in her eyes. "He just keeps . . . hurting you, and he won't stop."

"I'll be all right," he told her, even as he tasted the blood in his mouth and shivered with a sudden chill, knowing a fever was not far behind. He wished he had one hand loose just so he could rub at the tight ache between his eyes. "Don't forget Sammy, either," he went on, hearing his voice roughen. "He'll figure this whack job out in no time. Trust me. We're gonna get out of here."

"Okay," she sighed, clearly not believing him but doing her best.

He managed a smile for her, barely a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth. And then everything around him went grey and blurry, and he let his eyes drift shut as he felt his head fall forward.

From very far away . . . . "Dean?"

A gentle touch on his cheek, not the sharp blow he had come to expect.

"Dean, don't leave me." In the darkness, he heard Paige's soft voice, frightened and pleading. "Wake up."

He wanted to answer her, to tell her it would be all right, he really did.

"Help him, Rosa." A quiet, gasping sob. "Please, sweetie, you can do it. Don't be scared . . . ."

But then sound faded along with sight, and he heard nothing more.

TBC . . .


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to the usual suspects, Angela and Rhiannon, for the usual amazing and wonderful beta/comments/poking/suggestions/help with Sam not acting like Sam, and for keeping me from being too lazy. And thanks to Kati for answers to my questions.

Just to re-cap a bit, what with all the pov shifts and playing "meanwhile back at the ranch." Our last sight of Dean, poor boy, was that of him falling into a rather annoying state of possible unconsciousness at the end of chapter 6 with Paige and Rosa looking on; it was early in the morning right after our kindly neighborhood psycho-kidnapper went to tell Sam that his brother was killed in the accident.

We left off with Sam in chapter 4, later that same day, having spent the afternoon locked in his room for being bad. After learning from his friendly kidnapper that Dean is dead, Sam is now told that Dean is actually still alive. If said psycho, er, friendly kidnapper can be believed at this point.

Everybody clear? Okay.

Then it's back to our story, where we once again join Sam.

xxxxx

Chapter 7

Sam's hands tightened into fists. He stared at Father. "All you've done is lie from the beginning," he spat. "I want proof you have him, that he's . . . alive. I want to see Dean. And if you've hurt him . . . ." He had to take a deep breath before he could go on, seeing only Dean, bleeding and unconscious in the Impala's front seat. "If you've hurt him," he said coldly, "don't count on me showing you any mercy."

"Oh, he's alive, Samuel. Just not very . . . _lively_ at the moment." Father smiled. "As far as hurting him – well, a little late for that. And really, you boys sound like a broken record with the way you both make threats. Dear, dear me." He clucked his tongue as though amused. "What a pair you are."

"What have you done?" Sam demanded, moving toward Father, crowding and actually forcing the man back a step with his greater height and build. He thought a trace of unease flashed briefly in the old man's pale eyes for the first time. "What did you do to my brother, dammit?"

"Please, Samuel. Language." Without turning away from Sam, Father said in a louder tone, "Paige, my dear, why don't you wait outside. Samuel and I have a few things to discuss in private."

"Yes, Father," came the subdued reply.

Sam glanced over, but Paige didn't meet his eyes as she slipped out the door and shut it quietly behind her.

"Now, Samuel," Father admonished, raising an eyebrow and putting a hand up in front of Sam. "Don't forget who holds all the cards here. You want to see Dean?" His voice turned ugly. "You play things my way, boy. Otherwise I'll turn right around and lock you back up in this room. Then I'll go have some fun with Dean while you sit here and wonder what I'm doing to him. With him." A vicious leer twisted the old man's face. "He's really quite pretty, even under all that blood. As you know, I would never . . . harm the children in any way . . . certainly not . . . _that_ way. But a man has appetites, you understand, and sometimes I must satisfy those where I can." He leaned closer to Sam, taunting and malicious. "Would you prefer that scenario? Dean isn't special like you, Samuel," he whispered. "I might as well get _some_ use out of him. Maybe you'd even like to watch?"

Sam backed up a step, then another, sickened and unable to hide the horror he felt from showing on his face. "Don't touch him," he said. "You bastard, don't –"

"Oh, really, Samuel. Your naiveté is showing. Stop glaring at me as though I'm some sort of Victorian melodrama villain. It's not as if I'm about to ravish some innocent maiden. Dean is neither maiden nor hardly innocent, is he? He might even enjoy it, did you ever think of that?"

"Shut up!" Sam said between clenched teeth. "Let me see him. Prove to me you've got him."

With a chuckle, Father gestured at the door. "By all means. Let's collect the children and go visit Dean. I'm sure he'll be very glad to see you. Well, if he's awake, that is."

Sam stalked past him without a word and wrenched open the door, letting it bang into the wall as he swept into the hallway, nearly running over Paige. Father still laughed quietly behind him, and he found his hands curled into fists once again. Aching to throw a punch and pummel Father's face until it was a broken, bloody mess.

But he couldn't let this sick bastard get to him. More head games. That's all it was.

Sam drew in a ragged breath. Suddenly his hands began to shake, and tears threatened.

The old man had said Dean was alive. _Alive. _

He hardly dared to hope, to believe. To ignore the evidence of his vision, of Dean taken away from him in the dark, consumed by fire. Sam blinked his burning eyes.

But a flare of anger pushed fragile joy and relief aside for the moment.

"Where is he?" Sam said over his shoulder as he emerged from the hallway into the living room. He thought about the rooms he'd seen so far in the rustic cabin, and his instincts told him Dean would not be found here. "He's not in the house, is he," Sam stated as he turned around to stare at Father. "Where have you got him?"

"Patience, my dear boy."

"I'm not your 'dear boy,' you son of a bitch."

"Samuel, with that kind of attitude, I just might change my mind. Behave yourself, or I'll make you wait until tomorrow to see him. Is that really what you want, Samuel?"

Sam clamped down on his fury, forced his trembling fists to relax against his thighs. He could do this; he _had_ to do this. "No," he managed to grate out quietly. "That's not what I want. I want to see my brother."

"I do believe, Samuel, that we have already discussed the fact that Dean is no longer your brother. Please stop referring to him as such. We're your family now, and the only brother you need concern yourself with is Brian." Father gave him a mocking smile. "Don't you mean to say, 'Please, Father, take me to see _Dean_.'"

A muscle tightened in Sam's jaw. "Please . . . Father," he said, after a moment, quieter still, quietly seething. "Take me to see –" he grit his teeth "– Dean."

"Good boy, Samuel," Father praised, beaming fondly at him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

_Now what? _Sam thought in disgust. _A pat on the head and a dog biscuit? _

"Yes," Father mused, "it was a good idea not to kill Dean right away after all. Look how well you behave knowing the consequences if you don't. We're going to get along much better now, aren't we, Samuel?"

Sam didn't bother to respond to that. He simply turned away again and took up a position leaning against the stone fireplace in the living room, arms crossed, shoulders slumped, and tried to ignore Father's obscenely cheerful voice calling for Brian and Rosa.

Let the old man enjoy his little game of taunts and manipulations. He just had to avoid falling into the trap of listening, of responding to those taunts and giving the old man more ammunition to use against him. He bit his lip. If Father had talked that way to Dean . . . . Dean wouldn't have shut up. At all. Dean would have smirked and smart-assed himself into trouble.

Father had had Dean in his twisted little clutches all day. Longer. Since last night, since the accident. The accident where Dean had been hurt. And that on top of twenty stitches and a cursed fever thanks to the revenant's tainted knife slashing his arm . . . .

_But Dean's alive, _he told himself fiercely. _He's alive. Whatever else, you can deal with it. _

"Come along, then, Samuel," Father called.

Sam looked up from his unfocused stare at the carpet. The old man had gathered the three children together, and all were now waiting by the front door. Brian's nasty little smile matched Father's.

"Let's go see how Dean's doing, shall we? See if he's fit for visitors."

The old man led the way out the door, the children following, and Sam quickly caught up in a couple of long strides. A glimpse of Paige's expression before she ducked her head again sent a frisson of fear crawling down his spine, and his mouth went dry.

_Oh, God, Dean. What has he done to you?_

xxxxx

Sam's first sight of the shed, set back a dozen yards or so, had him sprinting ahead. There. Dean was there. He knew it. So close, all this time. Heart pounding with more than mere exertion, he reached the door and tugged frantically, his scrabbling fingers useless on the chained padlock swinging there. With a hissed curse, he rattled it one more time and wished for Dean's handy set of lock picks.

"Dean!" he yelled, as he dropped the padlock to place his palms flat on the door. "Dean, it's Sam! Can you hear me?"

Hands and face pressed against the wood, he waited desperately for an answering shout. For Dean to tell him everything was okay. That he could stop crying like an emo little girl and where the hell had he been and was he all right . . . .

Nothing but silence.

"I guess that answers that question, eh, Samuel?" Father said, coming to stand to one side, idly flipping a key between his fingers. "Poor Dean must still be . . . asleep."

But then, drifting through the door, so low and soft it might have been his own wishful thinking. He held his breath, straining, and there it was again, no dream –

"Sammy?"

"Dean!" he hollered, unable to keep a quick grin under wraps as he sagged against the door. For some reason, his knees were suddenly too weak to hold him up. "I'm right here, Dean!" Sam straightened, turned to Father, and the grin fell away as he nailed the old man with a glare. "Let me in."

"Tsk, tsk, Samuel. Manners." But he twisted the key and the lock sprang open. Stuffing the key in his pocket, he gestured at the padlock and chain. "But I am feeling grandly munificent today, so as a gesture of my goodwill, I think I can allow you five minutes with him. He didn't appear at all well when I left him earlier this afternoon, but I'm sure he will appreciate your no doubt touching reunion."

Sam heard the words, heard the awful satisfaction in Father's tone, but ignored the old man in favor of getting to Dean. With a grimace, Sam at once removed both padlock and chain, dropped them on the ground, and reached for the door only to be brought to a halt with his hand a hair's-breadth away –

"However," Father went on, grasping Sam's elbow. "No tricks, Samuel. No funny business. Dean stays where he is, you understand? Or I'll hurt him. Hear me?"

Sam had to fight to keep his temper in check.

"Speak up, Samuel."

"I hear you," he said, seething quietly.

"Very well. Behave or else."

Then Sam could move again, and without another thought he flung open the door and ducked inside. And there –

Dean.

Tied to a chair at wrists and ankles, blinking in the sudden wash of daylight and squinting up at Sam, frozen in the doorway.

Dean. Alive.

"Sammy?" Dean croaked. "Hey, 'bout freakin' time . . . you got here."

Sam shook off his momentary paralysis and surged forward into the shed, his nose wrinkling at the unpleasantly familiar odors of blood, sweat, and a fainter underlying smell of sour vomit.

"Dean," he said, words faltering, throat tightening. Sam reached Dean's side and met his eyes, seeing his own intense relief mirrored there. He stared down at his brother's face, pale and bloodied, and as the lingering dark knot of grief finally unraveled from his chest, he thought he'd probably never seen anything quite so welcome in his life. "Oh, man . . . ." The words were little more than a breathy sigh. "You're not dead." Sam put out a hand that might've trembled, just a bit, to settle on Dean's shoulder and grip him tight.

"Says . . . the brilliant college boy." Dean gave him a somewhat lopsided, not-quite-there grin, followed by that familiar, assessing head-to-toes glance, the look in his eyes one Sam had known for as long as he could remember, and the next words were no surprise.

"You all right, Sammy?"

"I'm okay, Dean, but you're not looking so great," Sam said, wincing. He gave Dean a quick once-over of his own. New bruising, ugly and discolored, blossomed on his cheek and jaw, along with what might be a faint flush of fever. Blood still crusted his hair and face from where his head had met the Impala's dashboard. His lower lip was cut and swollen. Fine lines of pain pinched his eyes and mouth, and a fresh bloodstain darkened his right sleeve. Where Sam had stitched the wound from the revenant's blade. The very visible evidence of his brother's injuries at the hands of their captor sent a spike of fury though him. After a quick squeeze, he released Dean's shoulder and crouched down to begin working on the knots around Dean's right wrist. "Let's get you outta these, huh?"

_And out of this damn shed, and far, far away from here._

The overhead light flipped on. A shadow fell across the floor.

"Not so fast, Samuel."

Only Sam caught the swiftly hidden flicker of despair in Dean's eyes before Dean raised his head and awkwardly straightened up as best he could.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. "What the hell . . . did ya have to bring Gomer along for? I've seen enough of . . . that old bastard today." He looked over at the doorway. "Hear me, Pops? I got nothin' to say to you."

_Gomer? Pops?_

The cocky bravado was there, and it would've fooled anyone else. But the exhaustion that lay beneath the words, the effort it took to keep up that careless façade, was all too readily apparent to Sam.

"Sorry, Dean," he murmured, briefly stilling his hand on top of Dean's. He looked at those torn wrists, grimacing at the obvious signs of Dean having tried to free himself. "Not quite a rescue yet."

Footsteps behind him signaled Father's presence at his back.

Sam didn't turn around. "I want to get my brother out of these ropes," he said evenly, pulling carefully at the knots again, "and then I'm going to see how badly you've hurt him." He was pushing it; he knew that, but God . . . . Dean needed to get out of here. Sam would fall down on his knees and beg if he had to.

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice barely a whisper. A warning.

"Shhh," Sam whispered back.

The last knot on Dean's wrist reluctantly gave way to Sam's dogged persistence and practiced fingers. As he gently lifted the rope away and saw the state of the lacerated flesh beneath, a number of vicious and virulent Latin curses ran through his mind. He would've preferred spitting them out loud – at Father, with all the appropriate accompanying ritual.

Dean didn't make a sound, scarcely even a hitched breath, but his fingers spasmed against Sam's light grip when Sam started to rub them in an effort to warm them, to ease the stiffness and pain of returning circulation. Sam was surprised and even a little apprehensive when Dean made none of his typical protests or tried to pull away.

"Samuel, I have been exceedingly lenient with you just now, allowing you to see Dean, but don't trifle with me. He stays here, and he stays tied up."

"Hey, Gomer," Dean said in a remarkably steady voice above Sam's head. "Sam hates being called 'Samuel' even more than 'Sammy,' didja know that?" Dean shook his head and sighed. "Guess not. So much for that . . . amazing gift of yours, huh? Psychic bullshit, seeing the light in the dark . . . powers of the mind, blah, blah, blah. What a load of crap."

Though wanting to smack Dean into shutting up, Sam settled for a warning squeeze of Dean's stiff fingers before placing his brother's freed hand on his leg. Sam then hovered uncertainly over the thick knots encircling Dean's other wrist, wanting only to release him, but hesitant when it came to Father's temper and those earlier threats of violence. He settled for taking Dean's curled fingers between his hands, straightening them, rubbing them as far as the rope would allow and disregarding Dean's twitching efforts to stop him.

Sam threw a look over his shoulder at Father. "Please," he said quietly. "It's not like he's in any shape to try anything. He's hurt. I just want to check him out."

"I will not tolerate this disobedience, Samuel." The footsteps started up again, slowly pacing a circle around them. "I have warned you of the consequences of such behavior. Or have I overestimated your intelligence?"

"Well, just so you know, Gomer, Sammy's always been stubborn. Even as a baby. Never wanted to go to sleep . . . or eat his mashed peas, and the older he got," Dean shrugged, taking a shallow breath, "the worse he got. So telling him to do something . . . just isn't gonna work if he doesn't wanna do it. I can't remember how many times I had to – "

"Dean," Father said from behind Sam, his circuit complete. "That is quite enough."

Sam gave Dean's knee a sharp poke with his elbow.

_Shut up, shut up, just please shut up. I would really prefer to have both of us in one piece, thank you very much, when we make a break for it. Whenever that is. So stop pissing the guy off already._

"Yeah, sure, whatever . . . you say there, Pops," Dean snorted. Then his breath caught on a wincing cough. "'Cause you're . . . runnin' the show . . . right? Not like there'd be a show to run . . . though, without . . . the kids."

Sam didn't need to see the sardonic half-smile on Dean's face or the upward quirk of his eyebrows; he could hear it in his brother's voice. But that slightly uneven breathing, and the breaks in Dean's speech – that he could hear as well, and it worried him. He gave the fingers he was rubbing a little more vigorous squeeze.

_Shut up, dammit! Just this once! Quit pushing the psycho's buttons. And you call _me _stubborn? You idiot. _

Two of Dean's fingers pressed weakly into Sam's, and Sam wasn't sure if that meant, _Gotcha, Sammy _or _Shut up and let me play it my way._ He flicked his eyes up, but Dean was watching Father.

"Yes, speaking of stubborn, Samuel," Father said, unwittingly echoing Sam's thoughts. The pacing continued. "Dean has twice now managed to free himself. It would be quite an admirable trait were it not so . . . annoying. And inconvenient."

"Aw, come on, Gomer!" Dean protested. "Like I said, that . . . second time I only needed to take a leak. You've had me tied . . . up in here for hours. My ass went to sleep. What d'you expect? It's not like I _tried_ to bust . . . the chair. Just tipped it over. Jesus, give a guy a break."

"I don't think so. You seem unable to learn from your mistakes. But perhaps you can assist Samuel in learning from his."

The twitching hand that Sam was engaged in massaging at once went still and tense beneath his. The lightly jeering tone in Dean's voice vanished, and there was no pause for breath in his next words. "You touch Sam and I will fucking kill you, Gomer. You hear me?"

"Yes, Dean, so you keep saying. Your ire is duly noted. Really, you have become quite tedious with those remarks."

"Yeah, and your . . . line of bullshit got real old . . . real fast, Gomer. Hey, Sammy." The mocking lilt had returned, but Sam could still feel the tautness in his brother's hand and arm. "Did ol' Gomer here tell ya that he used to be a shrink? At least until they . . . kicked him out 'cause he was, you know, _crazy_." Dean let out a scratchy, cackling laugh. "Gomer, dude, you don't know a doc named . . . Ellicott, do ya? You two could start a club for . . . buckets o' crazy shrinks."

"Silence!"

Concentrating on Dean's bound hand, the sudden and unmistakable sound of a sharp slap, followed by a barely audible hiss of breath, had Sam's head snapping up. Dean wore a faint ironic smirk as he lightly touched his mouth with his free hand. Father stared coldly down at him, flexing his fingers.

"Dammit, what –" Sam glared at Father, then proceeded to forget about him, instead reaching up to Dean's face, but Dean feebly batted his hand away.

"It's okay, Sammy," was all he said, both words and intonation cautioning Sam against making a big deal out of it.

Sam bit his tongue as he watched Dean wipe blood from the corner of his lip with his thumb.

"He hits . . . even more like a girl . . . than you do," Dean finished with a milder version of his usual full-blown smirk.

"Enough, Samuel," Father said, now behind Sam. "I believe your five minutes are up. And you are more than trying my patience with your current attitude. You appear to have been contaminated with some of Dean's more infuriatingly bad habits."

Hands fell on his shoulders then, fingers digging into his shirt in an attempt to haul him roughly to his feet. He easily twisted away from the smaller man, turning and standing to face Father, one leg brushing against Dean's knee.

"Please come in, children," Father called, backing up a bit toward the door, those cold, furious eyes never leaving Sam's. "Your assistance is required."

Brian, as Sam was darkly unsurprised to note, bounded in first, ready, willing, and eager as he took up a position next to Father. It might have been endearing under any other circumstances. Paige and Rosa slipped in together, their reluctance all the more obvious in the face of Brian's outright glee.

"Move away from Dean, Samuel."

Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head. "No."

From behind him, very quietly, "Sammy . . . ."

Just one word, but rife with meaning. _Be careful. Don't be stupid. Get out if you can, and don't worry about me. _Sam snorted to himself and flicked a glance at his brother. As if.

Dean plucked with clumsy fingers at Sam's sleeve, then dropped his uncooperative hand with an annoyed grunt of frustration.

"Very well, Samuel." Father's arm settled around Brian's shoulder. "I'm through being nice. I won't warn you again."

"No," Sam repeated.

"You're not helping Dean with this display, Samuel. I trust you haven't forgotten our earlier conversation," Father said, that thin, taunting smile back on his face.

Sam wavered. He was tired of being bullied. He wanted to stand up to the old man, but he couldn't risk Dean, not with Dean tied up, hurt . . . .

"Out of time, Samuel." Father shrugged. "Brian, let's give Samuel a nudge, shall we?"

Sam moved before he even thought about it. His one frantic idea in that instant was to keep Father and Brian physically apart, to stop them from somehow combining their psychic strength to use against him. But his forward lunge got him no farther than two steps before he was stopped dead in his tracks, stiff as a statue.

Then suddenly jerked backwards on stumbling legs no longer under his control, halting only when he struck a wall and narrowly missing an aging bicycle propped there. Neither his raging shouts at Father nor his inward struggles did anything to break the power that held him there like a helpless animal caught in a trap.

He fought to regain the use of his limbs, to push against Brian's power. _Crap, _he thought despairingly, breathing hard, flashing back to that moment in the cabin's hallway when Brian had him pinned to the floor. _Déjà vu all over again . . . . _

Over Brian's familiar laugh, he heard Dean yelling, cussing up a storm and flinging some very formidable and creative vocabulary at Father before his voice slipped away into a dry cough. The old man raised an eyebrow at Dean's verbal onslaught before his gaze slid back to focus again on Sam.

"Samuel, I do believe you are quite as irritatingly persistent as Dean," Father said. "I would've thought our little lesson back at the house had worked. This . . . attempt was very foolish, my boy. Very foolish indeed. I expected better of you. Really I did." He shook his head. "I am most unhappy with you, Samuel."

"Leave Sam alone, you bastard," Dean said, each word bitten off with quiet precision despite his ragged breathing.

"Oh, never fear, Dean," Father said. "I keep telling you I would never hurt the children, and that includes Samuel. Why won't you believe that? No, instead _you _will pay the price for Samuel's disobedience. Are you familiar with the concept of the whipping boy? Hmm?" Leaving Brian, hands now clasped behind his back, Father began to pace the small room as he lectured. "A whipping boy served the purpose of taking the beatings meant for a prince or young man of nobility if said young man misbehaved. Because someone of rank, naturally, could not be punished physically by someone from a lower social class." Father turned a beaming smile in Sam's direction. "So, you see, Samuel, think of Dean next time you try something foolish."

"No, please," Sam said, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Please don't hurt him. It's my fault. I –"

"Sam, shut the hell up already," Dean growled, yanking on the ropes on his wrist. "I can take . . . whatever this old bastard dishes out."

"Dean –"

"Boys, that's enough. And Dean, your efforts to untie yourself have become quite distracting."

Dean let out a quick yelp of surprise as his loose hand suddenly smacked down hard on the arm of the chair to remain there, frozen, unmoving – along with the rest of him.

"Yes, thank you, Brian." The familiar beaming smile appeared. "Well done."

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Gettin' sick of this, Gomer."

_Great, _Sam thought, still straining uselessly, unable to do much more than blink. _Now we're both trapped. _

"Paige, my dear. Come to me, please."

Sam had forgotten all about the two girls. He rather had the feeling they had done their best to be forgotten, to hide away from Father's notice. With his inability to move anything except his eyes, he couldn't see them from his vantage, but he could hear a quiet whimper and shuffling footsteps.

"Aw, c'mon, Gomer," Dean wheedled. "Leave them . . . out of this. You keep makin' 'em cry, and I . . . just don't handle crying little girls well at all."

"I think not, Dean. I think we all need to share in this. And speaking for myself," he said and smiled before continuing, "I want to enjoy the experience fully, and with Paige's help it will be most delightful. Now if you insist on talking, Dean, I will have Brian keep you quiet."

His uneasiness growing in leaps and bounds, Sam tried again. "Please, stop," he said. "I'm sorry. You don't have to do this."

"Too late, Samuel." The smile dropped away to reveal a cold anger. "You defied me in the house, and you came close to physically striking me. You then attempted to escape while under Brian's supervision, and you defied me yet again when Paige and I came to have our little . . . chat. Too many times, Samuel. And so Dean must pay a price for your thoughtless disobedience."

"Then punish _me_," he said desperately. "I'm the one who disobeyed, who did those things, not Dean."

"You _are_ being punished, Samuel. Please do not be so obtuse." With a frown, Father snapped his fingers in irritation. "Come, come, girls. We have things to do, my dears. No time to waste."

Sam could now see Paige, with Rosa trailing, gripping the older girl by the back of her sweatshirt. They came to stand slightly behind and to one side of Father, barely within his reach. And Father, who was once again beside Brian, had an arm draped over the boy's shoulder.

"Ah, yes, now we're all together. Samuel, this is for you." Father produced a knife from his pocket. An ordinary kitchen paring knife, with a blade about four inches long. Father traded a long look with Brian, and the boy nodded in understanding before turning his head to stare at Sam.

The expression on the boy's face was one of gleeful and smug superiority.

Uneasiness turned into a cold lump of fear in Sam's stomach, and his mouth went even drier.

"Catch, Samuel."

Dean yelled Sam's name as Father tossed the knife carelessly in Sam's direction. With mesmerized fascination, Sam watched the knife rise in an arc to tumble through the air, and he fatalistically wondered where it would hit.

And then his right hand was free and flinging itself up, the knife slowed its spinning descent and stopped in front of his hand, the handle slapping neatly into his open palm. His fingers forcibly curled around it, tight enough to make his hand ache.

He looked at Father in dawning horror.

"There we are, boys and girls. Everyone in their places, yes?" Father gathered a shrinking Paige in with his other arm. "Very well. Let's begin."

Like a magnet, Sam's gaze was drawn inexorably back to the knife in his hand.

"Gomer, you twisted sonuvabitch, stop this crazy shit! Leave Sam alone, dammit!"

Sam lifted his eyes from the knife and met Dean's anguished stare.

"Samuel has his part to play, Dean. He needs to be taught a lesson. I don't think he's been taking all of this as seriously as he should. But I believe this demonstration should clear up a few things, yes I do."

Father smiled at Sam as though sharing a secret.

"I had some plans of my own for you, Dean," Father went on, still looking at Sam. "But Samuel seemed to object to those." He sighed regretfully. "Ah, well. Maybe later, hmm?"

"Shut up," Sam ground out.

Father ignored him, and turned thoughtfully to Dean. "You really are too pretty for your own good. You know that, don't you?" He cocked his head. "Yes, indeed. Very, very pretty."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean drawled, sounding bored.

But Sam could hear the growing fatigue in his voice, the fact that Dean was working harder to mask it. His features had paled even further, which hardly seemed possible, the pallor of his skin contrasting frighteningly with his wide dark eyes and the bruises along his jaw.

"So ya think . . . I'm pretty. Well, hey, personally, I . . . think I've had . . . better days. But you know what?" Dean flashed the old man a derisive smile. "Even if you _weren't_ a crazy psycho sonuvabitch . . . you're still not my type, Pops."

"A glib tongue and a pretty face," Father said lazily, not rising to the insult. "What would you do without one or the other, hmm? Or both? Should I have dear Rosa burn and scar you with her fire? Or I could put a knife in your hand, and make you do it yourself." His voice went flat and cold. "How about that, pretty boy? Should I put that knife –" he nodded in Sam's direction – "in your hand and let dear Samuel watch as you put out one of those pretty green eyes of yours? Should I make you carve up those perfect cheekbones, all the while knowing there's nothing you can do? I can do it, and you know I can."

The twisted pleasure in the old man's voice made Sam's stomach clench.

"You sure . . . talk too much, Gomer," Dean said.

Watching him, listening to the stubborn defiance in that weakening voice, Sam was damn sure Dean's head was still up only because of Brian's power holding it there.

"Maybe you're right, Dean. Less talk, more action, hm?"

And Sam fell away from the wall, only to be jerked upright and tugged slowly forward, one shuffling step at a time. He couldn't make himself stop, he couldn't lose his death grip on the knife in his hand, and he was another step closer to Dean.

"I can't . . . I can't stop," he said, meeting Dean's eyes. His own were wide with horror and foreboding.

Even as he tried to resist the relentless pull of Brian's power, Father's voice oozed viscously into his thoughts. Like something dark that crawled out from under a rock.

_That's right, Samuel. Go over to Dean and put that knife into his flesh. Drive it deep and make it hurt. I want to his blood to spill on the floor. Can you do that for me, Samuel?_

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, cutting through the malicious whisper for an instant. "Fight him, Sam! Don't let the old bastard win!"

"Dean! Oh, God." Sam's voice rose. Another inevitable step and he stood over Dean, his brother as trapped and powerless within his body as Sam was, unable to avoid the blow that was to come. The knife quivered in Sam's hand, poised to tear violently into his brother's flesh. "Dean . . . ."

"Not . . . your fault, Sammy," Dean said. Beads of sweat had gathered at his hairline, his face and voice both showing the strain of fighting his own inner battle. "Hear me? It's not you."

_Oh, yes, Samuel. It _is _you. The knife is in your hand._

_Get out of my head! _ Sam screamed back, trying frantically to conjure those mental barricades of iron and oak and salt once again even as he wondered if the image had worked the first time. Mocking laughter met his efforts. "Dean, I can't – he's too strong. I'm sorry . . . ." His throat closed up.

All Sam saw in his brother's eyes was forgiveness.

And a heartbeat later, a glint of surprise just as quickly followed by focused determination. Dean's eyebrows rose imperceptibly.

His big brother had an idea.

_You don't need him, Samuel. He doesn't matter to you anymore. He's nothing, do you hear me? Now do what I say._

"No!"

But his traitorous hand shifted, and the knife began to move. A brutal downward thrust, it would strike Dean in the left shoulder, ripping through skin and muscle and sinew, scraping against bone –

_Yes, Samuel. Now. Do it now._

Then Dean blinked, a mere flicker of an eyelid.

"Hey, Gomer," Dean said hoarsely, his voice little more than sheer will at this point. His eyes left Sam's to narrow with feverish intensity on Father's. "Why don't ya tell Sammy . . . all about Irene?"

Father's vivid shock and anger blazed in Sam's mind, and he gasped at the split-second flare of white agony. Even in that instant Sam simply _shoved_ with everything he had in him. The fear and horror and fury of what Father was forcing him to do, the pain and grief that swallowed him when Father had told him that Dean was dead. He took it all and threw it out in a roiling rage.

And Father's power faltered.

Sam abruptly broke loose, toppling forward, his knees buckling and bringing him closer to Dean.

His brother was suddenly moving, too, in that moment of freedom from Father's power, trying to lean away and out of range of the knife. But slower. Exhausted. Struggling against the physical bonds of the ropes that still held him, his free hand trying to deflect the blow that was already in motion.

Unable to let the knife go as it continued its descending arc, Sam threw himself desperately, clumsily sideways, only to feel the blade meet resistance, snagging in fabric and then skin before he managed to roll away, knife in hand.

A smothered grunt of pain tore at his heart.

"Dean!" he screamed, scrambling to his feet. The knife in his hand glinted red, slick with Dean's blood. He staggered over to his brother's side, dimly aware of a confused welter of voices behind him, crying, shouting, but he shut it out, ignoring all of it.

Finally able to shake the knife from his hand, it fell to the floor with an ugly, discordant clang. Dean's head had sagged forward, lolling. Sam put a hand against Dean's neck, feeling skin too warm, too dry, and a slightly fast but steady pulse beneath his fingers.

"I've got you, Dean," he said, raising his brother's face between his hands.

"'S'll right, Sammy," Dean breathed, eyes opening. "'M okay."

"I know," he said quietly. "But let me look anyway, all right?"

When Dean nodded, he gently tilted his brother's head back and let go with a pat on his cheek. Looking down, he winced as he saw Dean's hand pressing against his lower left side. Crouching to get a better view, he eased the bloodied fingers away, and lifted Dean's shirt to probe carefully at the edges of the wound. The wound that he'd put there himself.

"Knock it off," Dean said in a whisper. "Wasn't you."

"Shhh," Sam murmured. And let out a very quiet sigh of relief. The blade had caught in Dean's shirt and skated across his ribcage for four inches or so, leaving behind a bit of a mess, but thankfully it wasn't deep. Not that Dean could afford to lose any more blood, not with his collection of other injuries – and that didn't even take into account what Sam couldn't see.

Sam gnawed on his lip. He had to get Dean the hell out of there.

"Samuel."

His name fell into the sudden silence like a stone tossed into a pool.

Sam dropped Dean's shirt back into place. He stood, and turned slowly, one hand still resting on Dean's shoulder, to face Father.

The old man – or as Dean would say, "Gomer" – looked more than a little pissed off. Not to mention shaken and a bit pale.

Sam allowed himself to gloat for a moment. _A crack_, he thought. _Definitely a crack in the old bastard's armor. We'll get him, Dean. _

The children were ranged behind him, wide-eyed, their glances darting between Sam and Dean. Even Rosa. It was the first time Sam had actually seen her face. But as soon as she caught his startled eye, her head bent toward the floor once again.

"Come away, Samuel," Father said coldly, attempting to regain some authority in his voice and manner. "Time to go."

Sam considered that, then spoke, choosing his words with care. "I'll come with you, but let me take Dean out of here. Please. He's hurt, sick, and he'll just get sicker if you don't let me do something about his injuries."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean muttered. "Just go already."

"Yes, listen to Dean, Samuel," Father mocked, haughty demeanor firmly in place again. "He, at least, seems to have a grasp on the situation. Now tie down that hand you so rashly released earlier, and we'll be on our way."

"Or let me stay here with him," Sam said, a begging note creeping into his voice. "Just bring me some water, towels, any first-aid supplies you have. _Please._"

"Dear me, such devotion. But no." Father gestured at the loose rope lying on the floor by Dean's feet. "Tie him, Samuel. Now. Or I'll show you how Rosa and I have made Dean scream." He pitched his next words a little louder, but kept his gaze on Sam and smiled. "We've already found a couple of lovely ways, haven't we, Dean?" With a sad shake of his head he went on, talking only to Sam again. "Are you quite sure you want to be responsible for more of that?"

Sam swallowed heavily, his hand tightening on Dean's shoulder in apology and defeat. "No," he said, his mouth twisting. "No, I don't want that." He let go of Dean to stoop for the rope, stained with Dean's blood, and picked it up, his hands trembling with anger.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean murmured, straightening in the chair with what had to be the last of his waning strength. "Do it."

"God, Dean . . . . I –" He shook his head, ground his teeth in frustration, and lifted Dean's unresisting limb to place it atop the arm of the chair. With a miserable sense of failure, of letting Dean down when it counted, he started to tie up his brother. Unwilling to cause more damage to the already torn skin, he carefully wrapped the rope higher, avoiding the imprint of bloody circles around Dean's wrist. "Sorry," he murmured, when he felt Dean's slight flinch from the pressure of the coarse rope. "Sorry, sorry."

"Tightly, Samuel. I will be checking when you are done."

"Control freak," Dean breathed, badly hiding a wince behind a grin when Sam secured the knots.

"Sorry," Sam murmured again, feeling sick, as he looked at his brother's bruised, weary face, meeting his pain-filled gaze. Oh, God. He had to leave him here. He had to turn around and just leave him in this place. Tied to that damn chair.

"It's done," Sam said dully, still gripping Dean's forearm. The muscles bunched under Sam's hand, and he held on a little tighter.

"Let me see." Father came to stand beside him, prodded fussily at the knots, and gave a grudging nod. "Well. Not exactly where _I_ would have placed the rope, Samuel, but I can't fault you with the results. Now come along." He turned away, catching Sam's free arm. "It's time for a good, old-fashioned, sit-down family dinner. You and I and the children. Oh my yes. I am quite looking forward to it."

"Dean . . . ."

"Go, Sammy," Dean said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin. "It's all right. I'm okay."

"No, you're not," he replied quietly, despairingly.

"Sam. Go. I'll see ya later."

Sam just shook his head, hearing unspoken forgiveness, concern, and a promise that everything would be all right.

_I'll get you out, Dean. I won't let him win. I won't._

His hand trailed away from Dean's arm as Father urged him on his way and out of the shed with the children following.

Leaving Dean behind in the dark as Father shut and locked the door.

TBC . . .


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I wasn't going to post any further chapters until I was done with the whole story, but I weakened. If I've cheerfully written myself into a corner as a result . . . well, so it goes.

Thanks to everybody who's still reading, and thanks for the kind comments. They are all very much appreciated!

Also thanks to my wonderful beta/sounding board duo of stealthyone and Swanseajill, without whom I would've given up on this story back around oh, chapter 5 . . .

xxxxx

Chapter 8

It was quite possibly the most surreal dinner table experience Sam had ever sat through. Forget the times growing up when Dean fed him SpaghettiO's for breakfast, or when Sam demanded Lucky Charms for lunch.

This was like some sort of twisted _Twilight Zone _version of _Leave It to Beaver_.

On second thought, make that _Father Knows Best_.

Buckets of take-out fried chicken and numerous side dishes filled the scarred Formica tabletop in the tiny kitchen. But only Father and Brian appeared to be truly enjoying the meal as they helped themselves to seconds, then thirds, of everything, while the two girls sat silent and withdrawn, barely picking at the food on their plates.

Sam idly wondered – and thought it highly possible – if Father had used his whammy on some unsuspecting, pimpled teenager in a polyester uniform and a dorky hat to get all the stuff for free.

_Yeah, that's a real profound use of your "gift" there, isn't it? _

He wanted to fling the sneering words out loud at the man, but kept his mouth shut and swirled his fork disinterestedly through his mashed potatoes instead. Even had he been hungry, he couldn't have eaten anything, not with the lump in his throat and the knots in his gut. Not with Dean still tied up in that damn shed. Where Sam had left him. Still bleeding.

But Dean was alive. Alive in spite of Sam's vision, and Father's lies, and Sam clung fiercely to that thought as he concentrated on channeling gravy into the creamed corn.

"If you are quite through, Samuel, you may be excused."

"Actually," Sam said, abandoning his gravy-damming project. He neatly crossed his knife and fork across his plate, and looked up to meet Father's annoyed stare. "I was hoping to have a talk with you. One on one."

Father patted his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair. "I think that can be arranged. Children, go to your rooms, please. And let me hear you shut the doors."

"Yes, Father," Paige said softly, plainly relieved, yet never raising her eyes as she slipped off her chair and took Rosa's hand.

Brian, predictably, began to protest that he was still hungry but just as quickly shut up when Father gave him a pointed look. Though it didn't prevent him from snagging a piece of chicken on his way out.

Within seconds doors banged loudly down the hallway.

"Speak up, Samuel," Father said, raising an eyebrow. "I simply cannot wait to hear what you have to say. Bated breath, as the expression goes."

Sam moved his plate just enough to put his elbows on the table and fold his arms. "So," he said, leaning forward a little and keeping a carefully blank face. "Just what is it you think I can do for you, anyway? I get visions. Of people dying." He shrugged. "What good is that to you? I can't control what I see or when I see it. I can't make the visions come. It's not exactly useful. Why pick me?"

The pale blue eyes brightened with a hungry, fanatical gleam. "Oh, my boy, you burn so brightly in the dark. How could I not want you by my side? Such lovely, lovely power you have, Samuel. So bright and beautiful."

"Well," Sam said, one shoulder rising in another shrug and his mouth twisting slightly in distaste, "I guess you've got me. But." His voice dropped, hard and cold, and he met Father's greedy gaze unblinkingly. "On one condition." He stabbed a finger at the old man. "You've made your point very clear. You can hurt Dean, threaten to hurt him more if I don't do what you say, but let's face it – if he dies, I've got nothing to lose, and you've got nothing to hold over me, no leverage to gain my cooperation." With a thin, humorless smile, he leaned forward a bit more. "Think of us as a package deal, Dean and me. So this is what _I _want. I want him out of that shed and in the house. I want to check him out and patch him up, and I want to make sure he's all right after everything you've done to him."

"After what _you _just did to him, eh, Samuel?" Father laughed. "Isn't that what you meant to say?"

Sam's jaw tightened against the too fresh memory of Dean hurt and bleeding. Because of Sam. Because of his uncontrollable, freaky psychic visions that made some madman want to use him. Because of his inability to fight Father, and his failure to stop what Father had set in motion.

Only to hear an echo of his brother's voice.

"_Knock it off," Dean whispered. "Wasn't you."_

"Just let me take care of him," Sam ground out, refusing to be baited even as his knuckles whitened. "If Dean . . . dies, I'll fight you every way I can. I won't make anything easy for you, that's a promise."

"Hmm," Father mused, studying him for a long moment. "A rather compelling argument."

Sam simply stared back, silently willing Father to agree.

"I might tend to agree with you, Samuel, but for one little thing," the old man said at last. He held up a hand. "I prefer that Dean remains in the shed under lock and key. I certainly wouldn't want his . . . corrupting influence and tainted aura in the house with the children. If you want to do anything for Dean, you'll do it out there."

It wasn't his first choice, but he'd take what he could get. One step at a time. _Get to_ _Dean. Make sure Dean's okay._ Sam let out a slow breath and nodded. "All right," he agreed. "But if I'm going out there, let me take some water, blankets, and whatever first-aid supplies I can find. Then you can lock the door on us both."

"Hmm," Father said again, tapping a finger against his mouth. "Perhaps. However, I believe I will call on Paige and see what she can tell me first." Head cocked, he closed his eyes, his forehead creased in a brief frown. "Ah," he said, opening his eyes again. "Here she comes."

And Sam heard one of the doors down the hall open and shut, followed by slow footsteps on creaking floorboards.

"Paige, my dear," Father said amiably as she entered the kitchen to stand warily by the table. "I need your help for something."

"Yes, Father," she replied, shoulders hunching. She shifted from one foot to the other, her hands hidden in the overlong sleeves of her sweatshirt. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just tell me what Samuel here has on his mind. What kind of . . . feelings you can pick up." Father spoke to Paige, but he continued to watch Sam. "I wonder if he thinks I am just going to let him get to Dean and, oh, I don't know – attempt something so futile and foolish as an escape?"

Somehow Sam kept the flinch he felt from showing on his face. Dean would've caught it, of course. But Dean wasn't here. Dean was slowly losing blood in a dark storage shed.

"Paige? Come, my dear." Father coaxed her closer and settled a hand on her shoulder when she drew up next to him. "Unfold the secrets of Samuel's mind to me."

Sam straightened in his chair and tried to steady his suddenly frantic heartbeat and make his mind an empty canvas. But Dean kept leaking in around the edges. Dean, and a dozen plans to escape Father, each one more desperate than the last. But all starting with Sam getting his brother out of that damn shed.

"He's angry," Paige said, her gaze sliding sideways to meet his. She blinked owlishly at him from behind her glasses and bit her lip. "Scared and worried. About Dean. He . . . doesn't want Dean hurt anymore."

"Ah, yes, I see. How touching," Father mocked. "What else, my dear? Show me."

She looked away from Sam then, to stare at the floor, and said, almost inaudible, "He hates you. For what you did, for what you made him do."

"Oh, Samuel, please. Time to move on from those tiresome issues." Father squeezed Paige's shoulder. "But, truly, no ridiculous notions of trying to rescue that sorry excuse for a brother? Ah, pardon me._ Former _brother."

"No," Paige whispered. "He knows . . . he can't get away, that you and Brian will stop him. He just wants to make sure Dean's all right. That's all, Father. Really. It's hard to see any deeper than that, past how angry he is. It's tangled up. I'm – I'm sorry."

Sam almost stopped breathing. Either she couldn't see it, she really couldn't pick thoughts up out of his mind like picking up sticks, or . . . she was lying for him, lying to Father's face.

"Yes, I see, my dear," Father said, plainly amused. "He _is _rather a mess, isn't he? Quite the tangle, as you say. You did very well, Paige. That's my girl, eh?"

"Yes, Father," she said quietly.

She was lying, and Father didn't know it.

Sam allowed himself to savor that astonishing idea even as he maintained a mostly stoic mask, allowing just enough real worry and pleading to show through to meet Father's continued scrutiny.

Father pursed his lips thoughtfully, and at last nodded. "Very well, Samuel. For now, Dean is considered to be back on the board, so to speak. A valuable pawn, yes?" The sly smile returned. "Unless it becomes truly necessary to sacrifice him for the greater good, that is."

A muscle jumped in Sam's cheek at that last remark, but some of the tension bled from his tight shoulders and he let out a slow, careful breath. Not out of the woods yet, but . . . safe. For now, Dean was safe.

"But Dean stays right where he is," Father went on, holding up a finger. "He is not, under any circumstances, coming into the house. I will allow you half an hour to . . . deal with him. No more. Under supervision, of course. You may gather blankets or towels, and water, and make do with that. Don't expect me to make a trip to town for medical supplies. Not for him."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Paige spoke first.

"There's a first-aid kit in here," she put in timidly. She pushed up her glasses, and he noticed for the first time the scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Like Dean. "Um, I found it this morning," she continued, a little bolder, "when I was looking around for something for breakfast. It's in the cupboard under the sink." Turning to look at Father, she added, "He could use that, couldn't he?"

"Please," Sam said, doing his best to look sincere, with no hint of any devious ulterior motives lurking beneath his hopeful expression. It always worked on Dean, even when Dean knew he was doing it. "Even if it's just a few things," he added. "Antibiotics, antiseptic, bandages. Anything. Please."

Father diffidently nodded after another considered pause, adding, "But I will look through it first, Samuel," he warned. "Just in case. You understand, I'm sure."

"Okay," Sam agreed, a little more of the tightness easing from his chest and shoulders at having won another grudging concession from the old man. _Hang on Dean, _he thought. _I'm coming, man, and we're gonna get out of here. I promise. _

xxxxx

Under Father's watchful, distrusting eye, Sam had quickly gathered together everything he could think of to haul out to the shed. Towels and half the bedding from his room. Bottled water, orange juice, and some of the take-out leftovers. Plenty of warm water, sloshing in two scrubbed-out pails. And the thoroughly inspected, but very well-stocked, first-aid kit. For which Sam could only give silent, fervent thanks to the unknown owners of the cabin as he trudged out to the shed with Father and the children, his arms laden with the med kit and a pair of grocery bags.

Father had, of course, found and removed the scissors and the Swiss army knife. But there was still plenty of stuff left for Sam to work with, to patch up his brother's torn wrists and – Sam winced – the knife wound he'd put in Dean's side. He tried not to dwell on the warmth he'd felt coming from Dean's skin, or the fresh blood he'd seen on Dean's sleeve. If the stitches had torn . . . . Sam grimaced again.

He followed the yellow glow of the battered hurricane lamp Father carried. Paige, ahead of him in the dark, carried a bulky armload of blankets, with Rosa a small, darker shadow behind her. Pressed into helping, a sulky Brian brought up the rear, but nevertheless showed off by using his power to levitate the full pails of water instead of carrying them.

"Very well, Samuel," Father said, reaching the door and removing the padlock and chain. Standing back, he swung the door open and gestured. "Half an hour. I suggest you get started."

Paige, Rosa in tow, slipped past Father first and stopped after a couple of steps, Sam right behind her and almost stepping on her heels. He fumbled for the light switch, blocking the doorway. The fluorescent light buzzed and crackled, and his eyes narrowed slightly in the sudden brightness.

His heart stuttered for an instant at the sight of Dean, motionless, slumped slightly sideways as much as the ropes would allow, his head drooping. From here, Sam couldn't even tell if he was breathing. Blood soaked his shirt.

A sharp, indrawn breath and a very quietly whispered "Dean," drew Sam's gaze down to Paige. She looked quickly over her shoulder at him, shock and distress on her round face. Then she quickly scurried forward into the room and dumped the pile of blankets and towels next to Dean.

"Is that all right?" she asked, turning to Sam. Her voice trembled slightly as she slid her eyes to Dean's still figure, adding, "I can move them if they're in the way."

"That's fine," he answered. "Thanks." And he put every ounce of gratitude into that single word, knowing she would hear it, that he knew what she had already done for him.

"Well, you're in _my_ way," Brian snapped, behind him. "So unless you want this water dumped on your feet, move your stupid ass."

"Moving," Sam muttered, stepping further inside and making his way over to Dean.

"Language, Brian," came the mild reproof from Father.

"Sorry," Brian mumbled as he stomped in, the two floating buckets with him. He settled them a bit roughly on the floor, water slopping over the rims.

Sam had a sudden flash of Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer's Apprentice, making the brooms dance madly amid the flooding water and soapsuds.

He shook his head to dismiss the odd vision of Brian in robes and a pointy hat, and put the med kit and the other supplies down. Crouching in front of Dean, he looked at his brother's slack face and closed eyes. "Dean," he said softly, reaching up to place two fingers against his throat. A rapid pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips, and when he slid his palm further up to cup his brother's cheek, fingers curling around the nape of his neck, the skin was warmer than he liked. "Dean, wake up," he cajoled, giving him a light tap. "C'mon, dude, I know you're in there."

"Sa – Sam?" It was barely there, but enough to bring a smile to Sam's lips. Dean's eyes flickered, fever-bright, and gradually focused on Sam. "You . . . back?"

"Yeah," Sam said, smiling wider. "I'm back. Gonna get you out of that chair, and I'm gonna check you out. Okay?"

"'Kay," he murmured. Then his head jerked in Sam's grasp. "Gomer?"

"He's here," Sam said softly, all too aware of Father's presence behind him as he let go of Dean. "Everybody's here. I'm just gonna get you untied, take a look at the damage. Okay?" His voice dropped lower. "It's the best I can do right now." He saw the blink of Dean's eyelids in acknowledgment.

"You . . . all right, Sammy?" Dean's voice was faint and scratchy, but Sam clearly heard the worry.

"Yeah. Yeah, Dean, I'm fine," Sam assured him, as he started undoing the ropes that bound his brother to the chair. "Let's get you fixed up, okay?"

"He really looks like crap," Brian said loudly. He had hauled himself up onto the workbench and swung one leg back and forth, watching with idle interest. "Think he's gonna die? Bet he will. Soon, too, from the way he looks. All that blood everywhere."

A small sound made Sam glance up. Paige had turned pale, and, glued to her side, Rosa made that quiet little noise again, her face turned askance so that one dark eye stared at Sam.

Sam took a second to glare over his shoulder at Father. "Is this really something that a little girl needs to see?"

As if on cue, Rosa gave a soft whimper and turned fully into Paige, burying her head against the older girl's side.

"Please, Father," Paige said, her voice uneven. "Can I take her back to the house?"

"_Girls,"_ Brian muttered under his breath in scornful disgust.

"Yes, yes, Paige," Father said, abrupt and impatient. "Take her away, and get her quiet. Then you might as well clean up the kitchen if you're going to be of no use to me here. Brian, take the lamp and see the girls to the house, please, then come back at once."

"Father –"

"_Now_, Brian."

Not looking up from the task before him, Sam heard an aggrieved sigh, followed by the thump of Brian's shoes hitting the floor as he jumped off the workbench.

"C'mon then, crybabies," Brian said.

Sam spoke to Dean, but the words were meant for Paige and Rosa as well as they edged past him on their way out. "Hang in there," he said quietly. "You're gonna be all right. Hear me?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed. "'M okay, Sammy."

"Sure you are," Sam said thickly, his throat closing up and his vision blurring for a moment. He had to blink several times, but his fingers never stopped picking at knots in the coarse rope. Thankfully, it wasn't long before he had eased the tight bindings away from lacerated skin at wrists and ankles, and Dean was free.

A soft groan was the only sound Dean made when Sam gently shifted his brother's hands from the chair's arms into his lap. Dean started to slump forward, but Sam braced him with a hand on his chest.

"Just a little longer," he murmured. "Almost there. Okay?"

"'Kay," Dean whispered. He straightened with obvious effort and lifted his head. "Not . . . dead yet, Gomer," he added, squinting past Sam's shoulder.

"Give it time, Dean," came the amused response. "I'm happy to watch and wait."

Sam grit his teeth to keep from snarling at the man, and got to his feet once he was sure Dean wouldn't fall over. He immediately snagged the nearest canvas tarp – the one covering the canoe – and pulled it off to fold in half and spread on the floor beside the chair. It was dusty, but he figured it would provide some cushioning against the hard concrete. He did the same with another, then reached for the first blanket on the pile that Paige had carried in, and put that down as well, then bundled up another to use as a pillow.

He stood in front of Dean again, bending just enough to look him in the face. Dean blinked back at him, eyes more aware, more focused.

"Ready?" Sam asked. He tried to ignore Father lurking in the background, hating for him to see Dean like this, his weakness and vulnerability exposed.

"Hell, yeah," Dean said, his mouth twisting slightly.

"Okay. Let me do the work then, all right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. Which Sam translated as _This sucks out loud, Sammy. Just get it over with already _and Sam had to smile. He leaned in, got his arms around his brother, and carefully hauled him upright out of the chair, hearing the quickly stifled groan. Dean's arms hung useless at his sides, and his legs buckled at once, but Sam's grip was firm, holding steady.

"Easy, easy," Sam chanted into his ear, arms tightening around the trembling body that sagged into his. "I gotcha. Easy, now."

"Aw, shit," Dean breathed. "Goddamn pins . . . and frickin' needles."

"Nah," Sam muttered back. "You're just getting old."

A huff of laughter then, and a clumsy one-handed swipe that fell far short of smacking Sam in the head had him cracking another brief smile.

Dean squirmed and mumbled in protest, but Sam just hung on, only loosening up a bit when he felt the shaking limbs relax a little. "Hey," he said. "Wanna try for the floor?"

"Why not," Dean said, panting slightly. "I love the concrete in here."

"Okay, take it slow . . . ." Sam moved, slid around to Dean's side, one arm across his back, and eased him to the makeshift pile of bedding on the floor. Dean let out a grunt and a soft curse, his eyes pinched with pain, arms and legs still quivering. "Easy," Sam murmured again, crouching next to Dean, giving all four limbs a brisk, quick rub.

Leaning over Dean, blocking him from Father's view, Sam could clearly see the raw fear in his brother's wide, dark eyes. Fear for Sam. _Go,_ those eyes pleaded, even as his mouth silently shaped the word. Dean's glance cut toward the door.

Sam simply tilted his chin down, met his brother's anguished stare, and very deliberately reached for the first-aid kit.

"Let's take care of that, huh?" he murmured softly, gesturing at Dean's side. And reading Dean's frustrated response all too plainly.

_Sam, don't be an idiot. Make a break for it. Now. _

He was tempted. Tempted to stand up, turn around and smash a fist into the old man's face before he knew what was happening. Then what? Dean was in bad shape, hardly capable of either fight _or_ flight. How far would they get before Brian caught up to them? And he sure as hell wasn't leaving without Dean.

So he shook his head at Dean, one quick, short gesture, ignoring the pleading in his brother's expressive eyes.

"Tick, tock, Samuel." Father's voice broke rudely into Sam's thoughts. "I think half of your allotted thirty minutes is already up. Isn't it strange how time can fly by so quickly?"

He bit off a sharp retort, instead getting up to carry over both buckets of water. Bringing the rest of his gathered supplies closer, Sam settled in, ignored the angry grinding of Dean's teeth, and grimly got to work patching up his brother.

As scary as it sounded, this was familiar – and hell, for them it was downright normal – and for the first time since waking up alone in a strange room and being told his brother was dead, Sam felt like he could breathe again.

With warm water and careful hands, Sam peeled away the torn, bloodied shirt that had stuck like glue to Dean's side, and bared the messy cut across his ribs. It had at least stopped bleeding, clotting stickily, but Sam grimaced and swallowed hard. Just days ago he'd stitched his brother up after a revenant sliced him open in a cemetery, banished the infection from the corpse's tainted knife, and here he was, back at it, and God, he was so tired of seeing Dean's blood . . . .

So he took a deep breath, gave Dean a reassuring nod, and got on with the job. His hands were sure and methodical as he cleaned and disinfected, then closed the wound with a row of butterfly bandages, and he thought he would rather be doing this in the sleaziest, out of the way, fly-by-night motel on the edge of the known world, than in this claustrophobic shed that had become Dean's prison.

Dean, of course, didn't make a sound during any of it. Only an occasional held breath or tightening of his jaw even let Sam know he was still aware and awake through it all. That, and Dean curling and uncurling his stiffened fingers into fists.

The sudden loud banging on the door startled them all, and Sam paused to see Brian poke his head in.

"Father," Brain said, beckoning urgently. "Car coming." He frowned in Sam's direction. "Police, maybe a sheriff."

Sam flicked a glance back at Dean, holding his gaze. It was the break they needed. A distraction. Help from the outside.

"Oh, dear," Father said thoughtfully, turning to look at them. "No doubt the local constabulary, wondering why there are lights on in Mr. Holden's cabin. Dear, dear me. I'd better go explain it to them, eh?" He sauntered toward the door, placing a hand on Brian's shoulder. "Please don't get any ideas, Samuel. You make a move to get Barney Fife's attention out there, and I will give him the excellent idea to drive head-on into the first car he meets on leaving here. Then I'll come back and . . . take care of Dean. Are we clear on that?"

_Shit_, Sam thought, helplessly. _Shit shit shit. _But he nodded, unwilling to risk an innocent life, much less Dean's.

"Good. I thought so." Smiling down at Brian, Father added, "Let's go see what the nice officer wants, shall we? And convince him everything is just fine."

The door thudded shut behind the retreating pair, and the chain and padlock rattled, locking them in.

"Dean," Sam began quickly, "he's the guy –"

"The voice in your head, yeah. Drives . . . the ugly orange mini-van."

"And grabs kids that are like me and Max."

"Worry about his . . . crazy motives later. Let's just get the hell out of here while –" Dean broke off into a dry cough.

"Aw, crap, Dean," Sam said, as he reached across his brother's outstretched legs. He rummaged through a plastic bag and came up with a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted Dean's head and held the bottle to his lips. "Sorry," he added. "Should've thought of this sooner."

"Thanks," Dean said, sounding less hoarse after several swallows.

"Drink all of it," Sam ordered.

Dean rolled his eyes, but complied readily enough. Then he licked his lips and made a face. "Damn, I'd kill for a toothbrush."

Sam grinned as he set down the bottle. "Brian was right about one thing. You do look like crap." His grin faded as he took Dean's jaw in one hand to peer closely at his eyes. "You were out cold after the Impala went in the ditch. How's the head?" He'd been so intent on the wound in Dean's side, he'd forgotten about his brother's thick skull. But now . . . . Biting his lip, Sam's other hand moved lightly around to the back of Dean's head, searching through the short hair for bumps or bruises.

Dean pulled away. "Yeah, I was out for a while, but hey – part of that . . . was Gomer pokin' around in my head. Then he did that black magic . . . whammy on me, put me out. Did it to you, too. Remember?"

"What?" He ignored Dean's futile efforts to bat his hands away, thinking back. Waking up in the small bedroom – wondering why he'd passed out so suddenly in the first place . . . . "Uh, yeah," he answered slowly. "I guess I do. After the crash. He grabbed me by the elbow, and that's the last thing I remembered. Now quit trying to distract me." With a quick shake of his head, he got back to business, and frowned as he looked at the blood on his brother's face. Disregarding Dean's protests, he ran a thumb up into his hairline, followed by a damp washcloth. Sam peered closer, puzzled, dabbing at the dried blood on Dean's forehead. "Where's the cut on your forehead from the crash?"

"I'm okay, Sam. Really," Dean said, attempting to push himself up on shaking elbows. "Head's fine. _I'm _fine. Leave it."

"Huh," Sam said, wondering what Dean wasn't telling him. Still frowning, he easily pushed Dean flat again, unconvinced by Dean's usual denials as he finished cleaning blood from his brother's face. "Just lay there for a minute, concussion boy. You've lost blood, you're running a temperature, and your legs are about as strong as cooked spaghetti."

Dean scowled. "I don't care if I have to freakin' _crawl_. We're goin'. Now. We gotta get out, Sam, and we . . . gotta get the girls out. Gomer's already killed one girl –"

"Irene?" Sam hazarded, remembering the name, remembering Father's – no, make that _Gomer's_ furious, stunned reaction at Dean's casual yet very pointed mention.

"Yeah," Dean said shortly, not elaborating, his face suddenly hard and shuttered.

Sam gave him a look, but let it go, for now. He tossed the washcloth into a bucket, started rolling up Dean's right sleeve, but thought better of it, and instead reached up to Dean's shoulder, ripping the shirtsleeve all the way off and pitching it aside.

"No time for . . . that, Sam," Dean said, trying unsuccessfully to remove his arm from Sam's grasp.

"Shut up," Sam said stubbornly. "All I need is a minute. Wouldn't want you passing out on me from blood loss during our break over the wall, McQueen."

"We might not have a minute," Dean snapped. "Forget this. You get . . . ready to take out whoever comes through that door." He winced and flinched slightly beneath Sam's cautiously probing fingers.

"Sorry," Sam murmured, wincing a bit himself and softly swearing at the torn stitches and torn skin.

"Gotta take out the kid first," Dean went on, ignoring what Sam was doing. He struggled to evade Sam's grip. "Minute's up, Sammy."

"All right," Sam said tightly. "Hold still." Within seconds he finished with gauze and tape, and washed his hands off in the bloodied water. "That's not gonna hold for long, you know."

"It'll hold long enough."

Sam didn't know what Dean saw in his face in that moment, but suddenly Dean's gaze softened and he shifted from cold tactician and hunter to slightly exasperated but comforting older brother.

"I'll be fine, Sam. Really." He held out a hand even as he pushed the other one against the floor to brace himself "Help me up, and . . . let's get outta here. That crazy old bastard doesn't . . . stand a chance."

Carefully avoiding the bruised lacerations on Dean's wrist, Sam grasped his brother by the forearm, bent to hook his other arm around Dean's back, and got him upright on wobbling legs.

"You're a mess," Sam said, shaking his head, not letting go.

Pale, muscles shaking with effort and leaning his weight on Sam, Dean nevertheless gave him a cheeky smirk.

Sam couldn't help it. He grinned back.

Whatever else, at least they were together.

TBC . . .


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Well, it has been awhile, hasn't it? Yikes. Apologies all around. RL hit, with some interesting distractions, as well as an incredibly monumental case of writer's block.

Thanks to the usual suspects, stealthyone and Swanseajill, for their usual brilliance in getting me straightened out in all manner of ways. Thanks also to Kati for answering gory medical questions; and to AJ, for her expert advice on how to go through a door when bad guys are on the other side of it. If I screwed things up, well, just remind yourself that it's only a story…

Thanks also for the kind reviews and comments, and for those of you out there who poked for updates. All are appreciated!

xxxxx

Chapter Nine

On legs that still trembled with pins and needles, Dean wearily leaned his weight against the wall on one side of the door and tried to shake some feeling back into his arms. Repeatedly, with grim determination, he tightened his stiff fingers into fists and imagined throwing one hard, vicious punch after another into Gomer's smug, fugly face until the man was a pulpy, bloody mess. See how the old man could take it from someone who could fight back.

Payback would be extremely gratifying.

From the other side of the door, Sam tossed yet another worried glance at him, obviously expecting him to topple over at any second. Dean shot a glare in return that more or less told Sam to stop watching him and pay attention to the door instead.

Sam's expression clearly indicated that he could do both at the same time.

Dean rolled his eyes and continued to flex his fingers.

Yeah, okay, he felt like utter crap, but they were getting out of here. No matter what.

Not that they had much of a plan. Barely enough time to get Dean propped on his feet ready and waiting for Doctor Evil and his psycho Mini-Me to come back to the shed. No time to MacGyver a bomb out of fertilizer and an oilcan. Who knew how long it would take the old bastard to put the mind mojo on a local cop or two?

Gomer. What to do about Gomer and his little tricks. They'd managed to rattle the old man's cage once, enough to break through his hold for those few seconds when the knife in Sam's hand was ready to plunge into Dean's shoulder, but the old man wouldn't fall for the same ploy twice. And he had to know they were gonna try something.

The kid was another matter altogether. The way he could throw his TK whammy at them, would they even have a chance to get through the door before he slammed them to the ground? They'd need to move, and move fast.

This was their one chance, and it was time to take the offensive. There was no way in hell he was going down without a fight, and he sure as hell wasn't about to let that old bastard have Sam.

Dean rubbed tiredly at his eyes and sucked in a breath as he stretched his right arm a little too far, feeling the pull of broken skin and torn stitches beneath the bandage. Sam had done what meager doctoring he could, under the circumstances, but thanks to the revenant, Dean hadn't exactly been at his best even before Gomer got his sadistic little paws on them. The painkillers Sam had put into his shaking hand, which he'd downed with another bottle of water just minutes ago, hadn't had time to kick in yet. His brother had hovered and watched with eyes that could hide neither his relief at finding Dean alive, nor his concern for – and anger at – Dean's injuries.

And now, unable to control the shivers that had slowly started to rack his body, he could practically feel Sam's burning worry hike up a few notches. Before he knew it, Sam had stepped away from his position against the door with a quiet curse, pulled off his long-sleeved outer shirt, and carefully threaded Dean's arms into it over Dean's hissed protests and swatting hands.

To which Sam responded with a low-voiced, very firm, "Shut up," as he finished with the buttons. Then, with a suddenly shattered expression, he tightly curled both hands in the faded fabric, and stared down at Dean.

"He told me you were dead," Sam breathed. "And I believed him. Then he laughed. I thought you were dead. For a whole day."

The shirt was warm from Sam's body, and Dean felt the chill lessen as the soft flannel lay atop his own torn, bloody T-shirt, felt the heat seeping into his skin.

"Aw, Sammy, you know I'm indestructible," he said, cracking a smile. When Sam just continued to stare at him, looking suddenly much too young and lost, Dean reached up to loosely circle Sam's wrists with his fingers and said, quietly, "I'm okay."

And he was, actually. Considering. Well, besides feeling like crap. Exhausted, bruised, and bloodied, with every muscle and joint aching, but hey, he could feel worse. And he had, on more than one occasion. At least his head no longer felt as though it had been split in half like a ripe melon with his brains leaking out. He was pretty sure the vague dizziness was only due to not having eaten for a couple of days. Nothing to worry about.

Besides, Sam was here, and that's what really mattered.

But Sam's eyes were still dark and full of remembered horror, so Dean let go and instead raised both arms to flap the hanging cuffs in Sam's face.

"Hey. Roll up these long, freaky sleeves for me, huh, Sasquatch?"

It drew little more than a slight upturn of one corner of Sam's mouth, but right now Dean would take whatever he could get.

"Sure thing, Shorty," Sam replied, a bit of the darkness lifting from his gaze. He quickly rolled the cuffs up a couple of turns, but Dean caught the wince on his face at the sight of Dean's raw wrists. The bandaging of which Dean had brusquely told him could wait.

A car door slammed.

_Well_, Dean thought. _That answers that question. The whammy session must be over._

He gave Sam a push back to his side of the door. Once again in position, shoulder braced, ready to move, Sam's eyes asked for reassurance.

Dean just nodded, with all of the big-brother's-always-right attitude he could muster.

Time to make their play. Finally. He had always hated the waiting part of the job.

He started a countdown in his head and picked up the length of two-by-four that rested next to his legs. A piece of wood, held like a clumsy baseball bat, wasn't quite the weapon he preferred, but he supposed he should be grateful for anything at this point. With a suppressed grunt of effort, he braced his legs a little more securely, and tried to straighten from his slump. _Suck it up,_ he told himself. _You're gonna get one shot at this, so don't go fainting like a little girl even if all you want to do is sleep for a week. Knock out psycho boy, knock out Gomer, get the girls and find the Impala. Easy. A punk kid and an old man. You can do it. . . ._

A sudden seizing cramp in his left thigh almost sent him to the floor. _Well, okay. Let Sammy handle the kid, _he amended. He pushed himself upright once again using the two-by-four, and pointedly ignored Sam's tense frown. He shook his head when Sam looked ready to reach out to prop him up.

So he grit his teeth and concentrated on pushing the pain away, on getting past it to do the job. Collapse could come later. He could do this, dammit. He had to get Sammy away from that crazy bastard, away from his hungry eyes and his insidious, mind-burrowing voice.

His free hand curled into a fist, and he found his fingers itching for a weapon. A _real _weapon. He could practically feel the familiar, smooth grip of his favorite handgun, resting comfortably in his palm, but he'd gladly take one of the sawed-offs – or, hell, even a thin-bladed, freshly honed throwing knife. He didn't care. Anything. He wanted to bust out of here at a run, guns blazing.

He glared at the piece of wood in his hand with an annoyed grimace.

And suddenly, with a fierce, desperate yearning, Dean wanted his boots and his leather jacket, his gun, and dammit, he really, _really_ wanted his car.

He'd reached two minutes and eighteen seconds on his mental timer when he heard that familiar, self-satisfied laughter, growing louder, and Brian's crowing as he joined in.

Trading a quick sideways glance with Sam, he tightened his grip on the two-by-four. Silently cursing his weakness and hating the fact that Sam had to take point on this one, he took a deep, measured breath, as ready as he would ever be to launch himself outside right behind his brother, covering high as Sam went low.

Then came the scrape and click of the key turning in the padlock. The rattle of the chain threading through the latch.

No more time for thought.

Even as Sam began his move, smashing the door open with his shoulder, barreling outward in one smooth motion, a wavering voice called out for Father in the darkness, a voice suddenly screaming about a police car coming back. Dean grinned wide in spite of his split lip as he followed Sam out the door.

_Oh, Paige, you sweetheart. You're a freakin' genius. _

Enough light spilled out into the darkness beyond the open doorway for Dean to see a dazed Brian to one side, knocked to the ground by Sam's sudden rush. A few steps farther away, drawn by Paige's scream, the old man had turned towards the house.

A surge of anger thrust aside fatigue and pain, and with a low growl Dean charged forward, leaving Sam to deal with the kid. His peripheral vision showed a coldly efficient Sam pinning Brian flat with a knee on his chest and raising a fist above the kid's jaw.

Dean brought the two-by-four around in a low sweep that took Gomer hard across the backs of his legs before he could fully turn around again. The old man collapsed to his knees with a grunt.

But anger and adrenaline only got Dean so far. His unsteady legs betrayed him, and he started to fall forward as he brought the board up for another hit. Before he could strike, the old man was on his feet to meet him, face twisted in fury. Dean staggered, still off-balance, and awkwardly swung the board at Gomer's head.

The old man grabbed the board before it could connect and glared into Dean's eyes. With a strength that belied his age, he wrested the two-by-four from Dean's shaky grasp.

Dean spun away, swearing silently as injury and exhaustion slowed him, throwing him off stride, and a glancing blow struck his wounded side. He hunched over with a moan, but training and instinct nevertheless had him sweeping out a leg to nail Gomer hard on the knee with the heel of one bare foot. As the old man staggered, cursing, Dean at once moved to press any advantage he could.

But just as quickly, he had to scramble out of the way of a wild swing as the old man lunged at him. He ducked as the board sailed over his head, and suddenly Gomer was on him, impossibly fast, a bony knee in his stomach, and hands on his shoulders bearing him to the ground. Dean struggled to force his leaden limbs to obey, kicking and punching anything in reach.

"Sam!" he wheezed. "A little . . . help here!"

An unintelligible shout from Sam, somewhere behind him, but he couldn't risk a glance.

He managed to land a few solid hits, the satisfaction of feeling flesh and bone beneath his fists outweighing the pain in his hands and arms. The old man fought dirty, though, and more than one shot found its mark, awakening new agony on existing cuts and bruises. He groaned as a blow to the side of his head had him seeing stars, and before he could recover, a forearm had pressed tight against his throat. Dean fought and bucked against the hold, but his hands scrabbled uselessly at the old man's iron grip, and he felt himself hauled upright as far as his knees with Gomer pressing into his back.

"More trouble than you're worth, boy," he snarled breathlessly in Dean's ear. "I have had quite enough of you."

"Back atcha, Gomer," Dean panted, gasping for air, struggling to get free.

_He's just a scrawny old man! This should not be so damn hard! _

Darkness trembled at the edge of his vision. And at the touch of sharp steel under his jaw, he sagged into stillness. For a moment he heard nothing but his own strangled breathing and the hard pounding of his pulse

Close. They'd been so close.

"Let him go."

The voice was cold, and hard, and Dean scarcely recognized it.

"Sam," he whispered, trying to blink away the black spots and find his brother in the dark.

"I think not, Samuel," Gomer warned. "Make one move, and I will most happily cut Dean's throat."

The knife pressed closer, biting into tender skin. Dean tried not to breathe too deeply.

"Brian!" the old man shouted. "Get over here, you useless boy!"

"I don't think Brian's in any shape to do anything right now," Sam said, drawing nearer and now visible in the rectangle of light from the shed's wide-open doorway.

Dean squinted through his blurry vision. One of Sam's hands had a firm grip on a limp, apparently unconscious Brian, holding the kid with little difficulty.

"I think you're on your own," Sam went on, hauling the kid up roughly by the neck of his shirt. He dangled like a kitten in Sam's grasp.

Sam's voice was still cold, but Dean could detect a definite tinge of satisfaction in it, and he had to smile.

_Knew you could take that little punk, Sammy. _

"On my own? Hardly." Raising his voice, Gomer called out. "Paige! Rosa!"

Dean winced, hearing the voice not only right behind him, but echoing loudly in his head as well.

_Paige, come out of the house! _ The command, incensed and implacable, drummed painfully through his skull. _Now! _

It was on the tip of his tongue to make a crack about tinfoil hats and their usefulness in blocking alien brainwaves, but he decided that with a knife under his jugular, he should probably keep his mouth shut.

He felt Sam's eyes on him, and even in the weak light he could see the hidden anguish in his little brother's gaze.

_Sorry, Sam, _he thought despairingly. _Couldn't even take down an old man. Up to you now. _

"Let Dean go," Sam said again. He shook Brian none too gently. "And I'll give your brain-washed little henchman back in one piece."

"Don't bother," the old man said dismissively, his breath hot against Dean's ear. "Do with him what you want – but then, we both know you're not the type. Besides, it's not as if I can't find more brats just like him to use." Then he chuckled. "You, Samuel, on the other hand, have only the one brother. So I believe that means I'm the one with the bargaining chip here."

"Don't you dare –"

"Spare me your ineffectual threats, Samuel. I'm really not in the mood."

Gasping breaths and running footsteps sliding to a clumsy halt on damp grass behind them signaled Paige and Rosa's arrival.

"Father, what is it? What are you . . . ." Paige's voice rose, bewildered and scared. "Dean? What's going on? Is Brian –"

"Quiet, Paige. No more questions," the old man said sharply.

Dean caught the click of her teeth as she hastily shut her mouth.

"Brian's just fine," Sam offered. "Just taking a little nap at the moment."

"Silence, please, Samuel. I still have the knife, don't I, boy, so you'd best behave. Now, then, Paige, my dear." After the shouted, furious order at the girl, the old man's voice was suddenly calm and friendly. "We will discuss your somewhat . . . unfortunate mistake regarding the police car tomorrow, but for now, come here, please. Bring Rosa with you."

"I . . . I thought I heard it," she whispered, wavering. "I got scared. I'm sorry, Father."

"I know you are, my dear. Very sorry. Almost as sorry, I'm sure, as you are for your inability to tell me that Samuel was indeed planning something." He heaved a sigh as if highly disappointed. "And here I thought you'd been doing so well lately. But here's your chance to make it up to me, Paige. To show me how much you love me." The next words snapped out fast and hard. "Come here. This instant."

"Yes, Father." Paige's reply was a defeated whisper.

Dean couldn't see her, unable to move with the grip across his throat, but he caught the quiet creep of her sneakers in the long grass as she came up beside them, felt the intensity of her attention on him.

"Ah, that's my girl. Put your hand on my arm, Paige, and make sure Rosa doesn't let go, hmm? Her gift may come in handy in just a bit. Come, now. Yes, that's right."

The old man's voice, too soft, too smooth, stirred Dean's hair. So closely had he pressed himself into Dean's back that Dean could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the thud of his heartbeat. Trapped, Dean knelt there, battered and exhausted, the dew soaking into his jeans and the cool night air bringing on a sudden violent shiver he could not quite contain.

And felt the abrupt prick of the knife, the slow trickle of warmth on his skin.

Met Sam's widening eyes, caught the shift of his tense shoulders. Heard the fear in his voice as he said Dean's name.

Brian dropped in a forgotten heap at Sam's feet.

"Oh, dear," Gomer murmured for Dean's benefit alone. "First blood. Now you've done it. That should teach you not to squirm." He chuckled. "Let's just get this over with, shall we? I have been ever so patient with you, Dean, but enough is enough."

"Sure," Dean rasped, not wanting to give the old bastard the last word, even if the knife blade did slide closely against his throat. "Can't wait."

"I might almost miss you, Dean. Who would've thought."

"Stop," Sam said, taking a single step forward, hands up in a placating gesture. "Look, I'll stay with you," he pleaded. "I'll do whatever you want. Just – just let him go. Please."

"Yes, Samuel, you _will_ stay with me. I'm glad to see you have finally come to your senses. But Dean . . . well, Dean is simply causing too much trouble for all of us. We don't need him anymore, do we, children?" The knife intimately caressed Dean's skin as the old man softly added, "I don't think you've been a good influence on my dear girls, Dean. No, not at all. But the next few minutes will solve that little problem, yes indeed."

"Screw you, old man," Dean snarled.

A crazy old bastard with a knife. Not an enraged poltergeist or a ticked-off spirit. Not any of a hundred monsters or nightmares out of human myth and memory. Just a psycho with a knife. Who woulda thought this would be the way he'd go out . . . . Dad would be so pissed.

Dean felt the laughter against his back, and the hand around his neck squeezed a little more, making his next breath a wheezing gasp.

"Oh, if only we had time, Dean. But alas, I've let you live too long already."

"No," Sam whispered, the horror clear in his voice as he edged another step closer. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this."

Dean couldn't nod, but he could blink, and that was enough to send Sam a signal. To try it, to make that move – hell with the knife.

_Do it, Sam. Now. You've got to try._

There was a wild desperation in Sam's eyes that Dean read loud and clear. _I can't, I can't, it's too risky. _

"Not another step, Samuel," Gomer warned, as if picking up on their silent dialog. "In fact, I think you should back up several feet. I mean it, boy. Move . . . . Yes, yes, that's much better. Our little chat has been lovely, but it's time to hurry things along. Paige, if you would be so kind. Show me his fear, my sweet girl." He crooned the words in Dean's ear, his anticipation obvious. "I want to drink it in when I cut him, when he bleeds and bleeds, and he knows he's dying. Blood and fear and death. I want to savor every last, lovely precious drop." The voice went intimate. "You're not special at all, Dean, poor boy, but you will at least provide me with some amusement and a bit of terror to feed from. We can take it slow, you see, and make it last a long time, oh, yes indeed. Cut you, heal you, then cut you again and again. Quite exquisite." He laughed. "And Samuel won't be able to do a thing about it."

Sam's face paled, and his hands clenched.

"Dean's not afraid of you," Paige said suddenly, low and sure. "He's seen worse things than you. _Scarier_ things. You're nothing."

"That's enough nonsense, Paige," came the sharp rejoinder. "Watch that mouth of yours, and behave. Now do what I tell you. Give me his mind. All of it."

"No," she said, but the word was little more than a breathless sob. "No, please. I don't – I don't want to do it. Please, Father, don't make me."

Before the old man could reply, Dean used what air he had to speak to her. "Show him, Paige, okay?" he whispered. "Let him . . . in." He caught a glimpse of her terrified face out of the corner of his vision. "But only . . . if you can hide."

Her tear-filled eyes widened in sudden understanding.

"Enough," the old man growled. "Paige, don't make me tell you again. Do it. _Now_."

"Yes, Father," she whispered. "I can do that."

But the words were aimed at Dean, and suddenly there was a quick touch, as light and delicate as a butterfly's wing, brushing against his mind before just as swiftly vanishing.

Then Dean choked as Gomer shifted the grip around his throat, reaching up to shove a hand under his chin, exposing the long line of his neck.

_Time to go, boy._

Even as the gloating voice writhed into his mind, the flat of the blade, cold and smooth, slid swiftly across his skin, then angled and cut into flesh. He sucked in a sharp breath as the wet warmth trailed down his neck. Bright pain blossomed a heartbeat later.

_Give me your blood and pain and fear. So sweet, boy. Like honey. _

Too far away, Sam screamed his name, the single syllable a wild keening of grief, and lunged forward, only to draw up short, no doubt fearful of making an already desperate situation even worse.

Dean ignored the pain, ignored the blood swiftly soaking Sam's flannel shirt.

_Okay, Gomer,_ he snarled savagely. _You wanted in? Here ya go, old man. Take it. Take it all. _

He closed his eyes against Sam's agonized gaze to look inward. Going deep, he opened his mind and memories, letting loose the horrors and nightmares of a thousand hunts. The revenant in the cemetery burst forth first, in all its rotting glory. He conjured the vivid, rank scent of its decaying flesh, the clinging reek of the grave, and the howls it made as the fire consumed it. He gave Gomer twenty years of remembered blood and death and things that stalked the dark. Nameless evils, ghosts and demons and spirits, creatures unimaginable in the light of day, and Dean unleashed them all at the old man in a terrible rage, burying him under the onslaught.

And felt Gomer's shock ripple through him as the old man reeled, his mind screaming in disbelief and denial.

Fear.

Dean preyed on that fear, on every monster that lived in the closet, under the bed, in the shadows, and jeered at the old man cowering in his mind.

The hand gripping Dean's head began to shake. The old man's heart beat a wild, erratic tattoo against Dean's back.

_You're nothing,_ he taunted, repeating Paige's words. _You're nothing compared to what I've seen, what I've killed. You're just a crazy old man._

Then that light touch was back, an even quieter one running beneath it, and Dean wasn't fighting alone anymore. There was new anger and fear and hate, and somehow he felt Paige wrap it all up, add it to his own memories, and turn everything back on the old man, twisting Gomer's power the same way he'd been using her all this time.

_Take that! _ she shouted. _See how you like it, you old bastard! _

A dispassionate corner of Dean's mind dimly registered the blood flowing freely down his neck. The cut Gomer had made into the carotid on one side hadn't been deep, barely more than a nick, but it was enough. He was already weakening. He probably only had minutes left.

But he had to hang on, just long enough . . . .

"Dean! Hang on!" Sam's frantic shout and eerily echoing words cut through the pain for a moment, and he opened his eyes.

He caught a shadow of movement on his periphery, blinked, and saw Sam easing obliquely towards him.

_Sorry, Sammy, _he thought, regret and loss and longing a hard, tangled knot in his chest. He sagged forward when Gomer's unsteady hands failed to maintain their hold and the knife no longer slid over his skin.

The blood on his neck and chest was warm, but he was cold, so cold . . . . And then something even colder passed through him, the fleeting sense of not-life making him flinch.

But as he felt that ghostly touch, familiar in a way he could not explain, a grim smile twisted his mouth and he shoved one more brutal memory at the old man, of a teenage girl with burning, angry eyes, with slashed and bloodied wrists. He showed Gomer the way he'd seen her for that brief instant in the shed. When he'd asked the old man about her . . . .

"_No!"_

The cry was loud, reverberating in his skull, in his ears. He forced open his heavy eyes.

"No, stop this!" The old man's voice rose in a shriek, and he staggered to his feet with a push against Dean's shoulder. The violent thrust toppled Dean from his knees, and a muffled cry told him Paige had fallen as well. Now brandishing the knife at the pale, faintly glowing apparition that swayed mere feet in front of him, Gomer jerked his head accusingly at Dean. "What did you do, boy?" he shouted hoarsely. The hand holding the knife visibly shook. "Stop it! Stop these lies – these tricks of yours! Now!" He slashed the blade in a panicked gesture at the spirit as it drifted closer. "_Make her go away!_"

His vision fleetingly darkened, Dean reached out blindly, searching for his brother. "Sam," he choked out. He tried to roll over, Gomer's rough shove having sent him sprawling forward on the grass, but he didn't have the strength. One hand sought clumsily for his throat, fingers sliding in blood.

_Too much, _he thought, weakly pressing against the wound. His eyelids drooped, unable to remain open any longer, and his hand fell away. _No time. _

"Dean!"

A weighty thud hit the ground next to him, then strong arms circled his shoulders, lifting him and gently turning him face up. He somehow managed to open his eyes as Sam pulled him upright until he sat leaning against his brother's chest, with one of Sam's arms propping up his suddenly too heavy head.

"No. No, no, no," Sam breathed, his other hand frantically putting pressure on the cut, using Dean's – no, that was Sam's shirt, wasn't it? – to slow the bleeding. "God, Dean . . . ."

"Hey, Sam," he whispered, gripping Sam's arm. "Meet . . . Irene."

He could see her even more clearly this time; she had gained substance since that first ephemeral manifestation in the shed, as if something was giving her strength.

A need for revenge, perhaps.

She was tiny, slim, the delicate facial features and bone structure denoting her Chinese ancestry. Her long black hair floated behind her like a silky veil despite the still air. Blood spattered her face and clothes, and trailed down her arms to drip soundlessly, endlessly onto the grass.

"Poor girl," Sam murmured from above him.

"Oh, God." Paige's horrified, sobbing gasp cut sharper and deeper into Dean than the knife had. "You killed her! You said you just left her behind, but you lied! I knew it!" Lurching to her feet, she rounded on the old man, heedless of the waving knife, fists striking him furiously wherever she could reach. _"You killed Irene!"_

She let out a pained cry as he swatted her to the ground, staring brokenly at the figure before them.

"Irene," Paige sobbed, reaching out toward the dead girl with one trembling hand, the other seeking behind her for Rosa.

At odds with her ghastly appearance, the smile she gave the two girls was sweet and gentle. Then her dark, almond eyes met Dean's, rife with shared sorrow and suffering for just an instant before the angry, vengeful gaze he remembered returned.

_He's all yours, sweetheart, _Dean thought, as those burning eyes swung back to the old man. _I think you're dead meat, Gomer._

Red-faced with rage and terror, Gomer still screamed, barely coherent, spittle flying from his lips. Dean found himself apparently forgotten as all of the old man's attention focused on the wrathful ghost of the girl he'd murdered.

"_Hello, Father. Did you miss me?"_

Dean heard the words, soft as drifting snow, but filled with a hungering hate. He had no desire to stop Irene, not even wishing for a rock salt-loaded shotgun to prevent what was about to inevitably unfold.

"Not gonna stop it," Sam said, his thoughts in tune with Dean's. "Don't care, not after what he did to you . . . ." His voice cracked.

"'S'all right, Sammy," he whispered, feeling the blood pulse out of the wound with every heartbeat. "Doesn't . . . hurt anymore."

Sam's hand still clamped tightly over the wound. "Dean, don't let go, you hear me?" he begged. "I'm not letting you go, so you have to hang on, all right?"

He could feel nothing but the warmth of Sam's hand. His body had quickly grown numb and cold, but Sam's hand was warm . . . . He looked up into his brother's face, at his eyes, bright and glassy with unshed tears.

Paige's voice suddenly rose above the screams and pleas for help, for mercy. "How many?" she shouted. "How many others, _Father_? I can see them, there in your mind! Daniel. Annie. Matthew, Christopher, Wendy!" She let out a howl. "Just watch, I'll find them all, you bastard! There's Rachel and Charlie and Beth and Suzy . . . ."

The names went on, but Dean's world had narrowed to the circle of Sam's arms, to his little brother's ashen, pain-filled face.

"Hold on," Sam said again, fierce and pleading. "Please, Dean . . . ."

_I'm trying, Sam. I really am. But I'm so tired, and Jesus, it's just so –_

"Cold," he whispered.

Maybe Sam's arms tightened around him then, he couldn't be sure, but Sam lowered his head to Dean's.

"Don't leave me," Sam said, his voice thick. "Don't you dare."

"Can't see you." He reached up with his hand, and gave Sam a weak pat on the chest. "Sorry. 'M sorry, Sammy . . . ."

He heard a soft sob from Sam. Felt Sam's hand curving around his jaw. Dean smiled faintly. Sam and his big, Sasquatch hands. Warm. But soon even that comfort was gone.

Everything faded, only darkness remaining.

. . . . Darkness, with a curious ball of warmth somewhere in his middle, wrapping around his ribs, the way Sam used to do. Dark all around, like those warm summer nights long ago, driving down the two-lane country blacktop, the Impala's windows wide open and the breeze rushing in, he and Sam curled together in the backseat while Dad drove and drove, music on low, and the darkness sped past outside, but it was safe and warm inside, with Sammy still little enough to want to be wrapped in Dean's arms, as they drove on forever, the Chevy rumbling, flying down the open road and eating up the miles . . . .

He had stopped believing in heaven years ago, but if this was death, well, he could think of worse places to wind up when it was all said and done.

A tiny spark somewhere out there in the dark tugged at his soul.

_Sam._

How could he leave Sam?

But, God, he was so tired. He couldn't fight anymore.

He sank into the warmth that curled up around him.

TBC . . .

A/N 2: Honestly, this was supposed to be the last chapter. All wrapped up. But I guess we're gonna need another one, huh? It's Sam's fault. Really.


	10. Chapter 10

Well, here it is. The last chapter. If I'd known when I started this darn thing that it  
would wind up taking me nearly a year and a half to finish, I never would've believed it. Or, you know, never even started in the first place.

And this chapter was supposed to be the end of the last chapter – a few paragraphs of exposition and wrap-up. It turned out to be twenty-odd pages. (Insert hysterical laughter here.)

Still not sure how I feel about this story. Love/hate. Something. I don't really enjoy reading torture fics, so imagine my surprise when I found myself writing one. That damn shed had driven me crazy by chapter seven – Dean wasn't the only one who was extremely happy to get out of there.

Anyway, I've rambled enough. Just a few people to thank. To stealthyone and Swanseajill and Kati, variously, for beta/feedback/advice/answers to questions and pep talks over the course of _a freakin' year and a half. _You guys are the best.

I've re-written a bit since the beta, so any new mistakes are mine, all mine.

So here y'all go. Thanks to everybody for reading, and reviewing, and for hanging in there after all this time.

xxxxx

Chapter 10

Sam's reality was shallow breathing and a slowing heartbeat. And blood, everywhere. On his hands, desperate hands that failed to hold on to the life slipping away beneath them. More blood on his shirt. On Dean's shirt, soaking it.

On Dean. All over.

The rich coppery tang was strong in his nostrils, in the back of his throat, and Sam swallowed with difficulty against the rising nausea.

Dean lay in his arms, shivering with the onset of shock. No color in his features, in his slightly parted lips.

Sam's vision had come true after all.

"Cold," Dean said, his voice barely a breath; his eyes a mere sliver of dull green.

"Don't leave me," Sam begged in a whisper. "Don't you dare."

"Can't see you." Dean's hand flailed weakly to land on Sam's chest. "Sorry. 'M sorry, Sammy . . . ." His eyes drifted shut completely and his hand fell away again, limp and heavy.

Sam let out the sob he'd been fighting, and he curled his fingers around Dean's jaw.

"Noooo," he whispered, tears burning. "No, no, no. Not like this. Dean . . . ." His palm still pressed tightly against the wound, useless, and he thought fleetingly of the first-aid kit in the shed, too late, too far away. Dean would bleed out before he could even get there and back.

He could do nothing but sit here with his brother bleeding, dying, in his arms.

Something broke in Sam's chest, hard and sharp, and he bent over Dean to pull him closer. Rocking back and forth, weeping silently into Dean's hair, he listened for each halting breath and counted every heartbeat.

_Oh, God, Dean. You're so cold. _

His hold tightened just a little more. Blood slipped steadily through his fingers.

There was a light touch on his arm, a soft, hesitant voice in his ear.

"Sam."

He could only shake his head.

_Go away, _he thought numbly. _Leave us alone. It's all over. Everything's over. _

He'd just gotten Dean back, and now he was losing him again.

The touch vanished, and there was a rustle of movement behind him.

"Rosa," Paige said, her voice even quieter. "Rosa, now. Before it's too late. Irene said there was still time."

Sam turned his head just enough to look up. Resting his cheek against the top of Dean's head, he blinked away tears and saw Rosa reach out to curve her fingers around Dean's lax hand.

"No," he said, voice low and rough. Nothing but instinct made him pull Dean away from her touch. For a moment, all he could remember, with awful clarity, was how the old man had gloated over the little girl's ability to cause pain. How he'd used her to hurt Dean.

But she was just a little girl . . . . And the old man had forced her to do those things.

"Sam, please," Paige said desperately. Eyes red, her face streaked with tears, she nevertheless met his gaze with a startlingly fierce intensity. "She can help him. She did before. Remember the cut on Dean's head? She healed it."

He gnawed on his lower lip and shifted Dean slightly in his arms as he recalled his puzzlement over the lack of a wound on Dean's forehead. Blood, yes, but the ugly gash had disappeared. Dean had told him it was fine, not to worry about it.

His glance traveled from Paige to Rosa and back again. Roy LeGrange and fragile hope in a musty tent hadn't been all that long ago. Then to find out that the miracle was no miracle at all, but black magic and a bound reaper –

"No," he said hoarsely, shaking his head again. "It's not real. There's a price. Always."

As though willing him to believe, Paige gripped his arm tight with both hands and squeezed. "No, Sam. I promise. Just let her touch him." She took a gulping breath. "_Please." _

Sam choked back another sob.

Hope. Such a fragile, terrible thing.

He looked down at Rosa, who had edged back closer to Dean. She sat with her thin arms wrapped around her upraised knees, and stared fixedly back at Sam with big brown eyes. Instead of terrified and traumatized by the night's events, she was eerily . . . calm. Or something. He couldn't quite pin it down. She simply sat there and waited for him to trust, to believe.

Silence had somehow fallen without Sam even noticing. The old man's tortured cries had stopped at last, the screams and gurgling breaths dying away in the dark.

_Well, _he thought with weary, grim satisfaction. _Glad that's finished._

Rosa tilted her head at him, and in that sudden silence, she spoke a single word, the first word he'd heard her say.

"Dean," she said clearly, unlocking one fist and stretching out her fingers to gently take Dean's hand again. Then she looked past Sam's shoulder and gave a solemn nod.

The sudden icy touch at Sam's back sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, despite knowing what – whom – it was.

"Please, Sam," Paige begged again. "Before it's too late."

His hand, wet and slick with Dean's blood, could barely feel the pulse that beat sluggishly beneath it. There was a slight hitch in Dean's breathing now, and he lay heavy and unmoving in Sam's arms, his head against Sam's shoulder.

Sam eased away only as far as he needed to and looked down at his brother's ashen face. Bruises and freckles alike stood out in stark relief even in the meager light thrown from the shed's doorway.

"All right," Sam said huskily, meeting the little girl's gaze again, those serious brown eyes suddenly old beyond her years. "Please. Save him." His voice dried up in his aching throat.

_Please. _

His miracle, in the form of a seven-year-old girl in grubby denim overalls and pink sneakers, cupped Dean's upturned hand in her small palms. With a slight frown, she closed her eyes and leaned forward a little.

Sam barely breathed, not daring to move or make a sound. His hand remained clamped over the wound in Dean's neck, muscles cramping from the pressure. He could do nothing but watch, and wait, and plead silently, praying for this to work.

He half expected to see a golden, glowing light – something, anything – as visible evidence of the girl's gift manifesting. But there was nothing. Just a little girl, holding his brother's hand and beginning to hum quietly to herself.

Paige crouched at Rosa's side, sniffles occasionally escaping, repeatedly using the sleeve of her sweatshirt to swipe at her eyes even as she kept her attention on Dean.

The cold presence that had been lingering at Sam's back abruptly vanished, and when he blinked, the murdered girl's pale spirit reappeared behind Paige and Rosa. A renewed pang of anger and sorrow hit him at the sight of her, at the blood that continued to run unceasingly down her slashed arms.

She'd gotten her revenge. The old man was dead. But if Dean died . . . . Revenge didn't matter much at this point. It wouldn't change anything, or bring Dean back.

Her gaze crossed his for a moment, and he saw his own fear and grief reflected there before he had to look away.

_Come on, Dean, _he begged, closing his eyes. _Come back, okay? Don't let him win, you hear me? The old bastard's dead, and we're gonna get out of here. Come on, come on. Don't you give up . . . ._

He buried his face in Dean's hair again, waiting and hoping.

And after a moment, an eternity or two, felt . . . something.

Faint warmth, a tingling almost, lapped gently at his fingertips where they touched Dean, then grew stronger, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

He held his breath, the warmth gradually ebbed, and he eased his fingers oh so carefully from their death grip against Dean's throat and raised his head to look.

Fresh blood no longer flowed from the wound, over his hand, down Dean's neck. Sam's now-shaking fingers slid over the site of the gaping cut, feeling nothing but smooth flesh and a steady, strongly beating pulse beneath.

"Dean?"

Sam's sticky hand moved to Dean's cheek, and he could've sworn it already felt warmer under his palm. Then Dean stirred in his arms, little more than a twitch, and let out a long, slow sigh. And kept on breathing. Deep, even breaths, one after the other, no longer hitched and shallow.

Sam gulped, eyes blurring.

A tiny hand patted his knee, and he looked down at Rosa's serious face.

"Better now," she said.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, dazed, not quite allowing himself to believe it yet. His hand moved back to Dean's throat, needing the reassurance of that healed skin, of the continuing heartbeat beneath his fingers. Dean even looked slightly less pale. "Yeah, I . . . I think he is."

Sam got another first – the smallest of shy smiles broke out on Rosa's face.

"Thank you," he added in a fervent whisper. The words were wholly inadequate, but he could only shake his head in wonder and say them again. "Thank you for this."

"I like Dean," she whispered back, as though confiding a secret.

Sam had to laugh, even though it sounded closer to a sob.

_Can't help it, can you, Dean? Got all the girls falling for you. _

Paige was crying, too, as she hugged the little girl. "I knew you could do it," she said.

Sam gave Dean a light tap on the cheek, desperately needing to see awareness in the green eyes again. "Dean, hey," he cajoled. "Wake up. C'mon . . . ."

"He's sleepy," Rosa said, still whispering. She frowned. "Don't poke at him."

Sam's eyebrows went up, but he refrained from giving Dean another tap, conceding she was probably right. Sleep was doubtless the best remedy at the moment. Dean was no longer at death's door, but still – he'd lost too much blood. Shock couldn't be far behind.

"Paige," he said urgently, getting ready to shift, to get to his feet. "Paige, where's our car? You told Dean the old man had it towed here, right? We gotta get out of here, now. I know Rosa . . . healed him . . . but I need to get Dean to a hospital."

She wiped at her eyes, pushed her slipping glasses back up on her face and let go of Rosa. "Yeah. I think Fa – Gomer was gonna dump the van and take your car when we left."

"Man, that woulda_really _pissed Dean off."

Paige gave him a sudden if shaky grin, and clambered to her feet, with Rosa taking her hand. "C'mon. It's this way."

Carefully easing his way from beneath Dean's weight, Sam got stiffly to his feet, then stooped down to grasp Dean under the arms and pull him upright. He knew a fireman's carry would be far more sensible at this point, but the thought of Dean's head hanging limply down his back made his stomach turn. One arm already beneath Dean's shoulders, he bent and got the other under Dean's knees. With a grunt and a slight stagger, he lifted Dean against his chest, his brother's drooping head carefully tucked under his chin.

Paige scooped up the fallen flashlight where it lay on the grass, and the bobbing beam flickered over the crumpled, bloodied figure of the old man before she quickly swung it away again with a sharp breath.

"Don't look, Rosa," she said at once, pulling the girl against her. "Sam, what . . . what do we do . . . about . . .? I mean, do we tell . . . ."

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out." He grimaced at the sight of the old man's face, contorted into a frozen rictus of fear and pain, and thought briefly, longingly, of gasoline-soaked wood and bright, cleansing fire to finish the job, to eradicate the man's existence forever. But . . . . No time. He had to get Dean out of here.

"I don't care if it means I'm a horrible person," Paige said in a fierce whisper as she led the way, steering a wide path around the body. "But I'm glad he's dead."

"Then I'm just as horrible as you are," Sam replied grimly, all too aware of the wounds and bruises still on his brother's body, of Dean's blood that saturated their clothes.

Then with a curse he stopped, swiftly scanning the darkness. "Paige, where's Brian?"

"Oh, crap!" she said, frantic. The flashlight jerked up in a wild arc as she spun around, then steadied as she more carefully swept it back and forth across the yard. "Wasn't he . . . right there?" The beam stopped on an empty patch of flattened grass.

"Yeah, definitely crap," Sam muttered, half expecting to feel the kid's whammy smack him in the back and not liking the idea of Brian still out there somewhere. Senses straining, he heard nothing beyond what he expected to hear at night in the countryside. "Let's keep moving," he said, as a sudden shiver ran through Dean's frame. He wasn't willing to take the time to do anything about Brian right now. "Getting cold out here. C'mon." He started walking again, hefting Dean a little higher in his arms.

Paige obligingly picked up the pace. "I never even noticed him after . . . ." She swallowed. "After . . . Dean, you know . . . ." She threw him a glance over her shoulder. "Do you think he . . . just ran away?"

"Irene scared him," Rosa piped up matter-of-factly. "He ran an' hid in the house."

Sam flicked a look in the cabin's general direction. If Brian had seen what Irene had done to the old man, if maybe he thought she'd come after him . . . .

"I'd be hiding, too," he said quietly

"Yeah," Paige said. "He can stay hidden, the little creep." With another look at Sam, she added, "Not much farther. Just up ahead under those trees."

Within a couple dozen yards, just as Sam's arms and back were ready to give out, they reached the Impala, parked under a line of evergreens. He'd never been so grateful to see the big, black car in his life.

_Home, Dean. We made it. _

Amazingly, the car wasn't locked, and Paige had already tugged open the backseat door. Sam gently maneuvered his brother inside, laying him down to stretch out as much as he could. A discarded sweatshirt, wadded up, served as a pillow. And miracle of miracles – another one – the keys were in the ignition. Dean would certainly appreciate the fact that Sam wouldn't have to hotwire his precious baby to get them out of here.

Sam quickly opened the trunk and rummaged until he found an old blanket, confiscated from some long-ago motel, and draped it over his brother, tucking it in close.

"All right," Sam said. He straightened up, one hand lingering on Dean's shoulder a moment before shutting the door. "Let's get out of here."

"Irene wants to say goodbye," Rosa said, resisting Paige's efforts to get her into the car. She squirmed away and pointed. "There she is."

The girl's spirit had followed them under the trees. Sam found himself unconsciously inching toward the trunk again, having sudden and uneasy thoughts concerning rock salt and banishment spells. She hadn't tried to hurt them – far from it – but why was she still here? She had gotten her revenge on the man who'd murdered her . . . .

So he stepped away from the car, and met her shadowed eyes. "Thank you," he said softly. "For helping to save my brother. For . . . ." He swallowed. "For dealing with the man who hurt him."

She nodded, and her gaze strayed to the Impala.

"I felt his pain," she said, her voice a faint whisper on the wind. "He made me strong with it, and now I'm free of Father. We saved each other, Sam."

"Don't go yet," Rosa suddenly cried out. "Please, Irene!" She reached for the other girl, her hands somehow meshing with the spirit's ethereal form. And when she touched Irene, this time a soft shimmer blossomed. When it slowly dimmed, then finally faded, and Rosa took her hands away, blood no longer cascaded from the dead girl's wounds – like Dean's, the vicious cuts had turned to smooth, unscarred flesh.

"Wow."

Paige's quiet, awestruck exhalation pretty much summed up Sam's feelings.

"Yeah," he murmured back.

Irene turned her arms over, and looked down at the little girl in surprise. "You didn't have to do that, Rosa, it's too late for me. But thank you, sweetie."Her voice grew fainter still, and her gaze lifted to Paige. "It's time for me to go now."

"Goodbye," Paige whispered, tears in her voice.

"Goodbye."

She slowly melted away into the night, smiling all the while.

"I didn't want her to go," Rosa said with a sniffle.

"I know," Sam said quietly, crouching down to meet her eyes. "But she's not meant to be here. She had to leave." He tossed a glance at the Impala. "And we need to leave, too."

"Okay," she said, nodding. "I don't like it here."

"Me, either," Sam said as he straightened.

With that, she immediately got into the car and wormed her way to the back seat, curling up against Dean before Sam could stop her.

"Rosa, come sit up front with me," Paige coaxed. "Dean needs to rest."

The little girl just shook her head, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

"It's okay," Sam said, sliding into the driver's seat. He looked in the rearview mirror, and the years fell away. That could've been him nestled into Dean like that. They used to curl up with each other when they were kids, when Sam liked being held in Dean's arms in the dark . . . . He blinked away the sudden memory. "She can stay there."

Paige shrugged and got in, stashing the flashlight under her feet.

He turned on the ignition, smiling at the familiar rumble of the Chevy's engine, his hands only slightly unsteady on the wheel. "Now. Where are we, and how do we get out of here?"

"Down the driveway, and turn right," Paige said. "That's the road we took to town yesterday." Her voice started to shake. "We did it, Sam." She reached out to grasp his arm. "We're really gonna get away from him."

"Yeah," he said, exhausted and euphoric all at once. He shot another look back at Dean. "We did it, all right."

Sam backed up, spun the wheel, and stepped on the gas. They drove off into the night, leaving the dead monster in the woods far behind them.

xxxxx

Dean woke. Slowly. With a vague feeling that he had missed out on something rather important. But he was warm, and it felt good to just let himself drift in blissful lassitude without really questioning why he didn't hurt nearly as much as some distant part of him thought he should.

Floating for a while longer, enjoying his pain-free existence, he gradually became aware of a background hum of familiar noises, the odors of antiseptic and bleach, and damn – he frowned as he wondered how he had wound up in a hospital. Again.

The last thing he remembered was . . . what? A dream? One about driving in the Impala, in the dark, with Sammy . . . . Right? A hint of panic surfaced for the first time, and he suddenly realized he was being watched. Not in a threatening way, just . . . attentive. Focused.

Not Sam, either. He could feel Sam-vibes from blocks away.

If not Sam, then . . . . That truly made him panic. He forced his fuzzy brain to concentrate, opened his sticky eyelids after a couple of tries, and confirmed that, yeah, crap, he really was in a hospital bed with all of the accompanying wires and tubes in uncomfortable places.

With a grimace of effort, he rolled his head sideways on the pillow. His somewhat blurry vision nevertheless confirmed the existence of a sprawled and sleeping Sam, propped uncomfortably in a chair next to his bed, long limbs everywhere. Dean breathed a sigh of relief at the sight and the dread in his gut relaxed several notches.

He blinked away the last of the cobwebs and abruptly noticed the small figure carefully peering out from behind Sam's chair, dark eyes wide and locked on his.

And to his dazed astonishment, Rosa gave him a bashful half-smile, and said in a whisper, "Dean. You're all better."

Memory hit so brutally hard and fast that he jackknifed nearly straight up off the bed with a hoarse cry that strangled the breath in his throat. The sudden movement awoke pain in a host of bruises and abused muscles and torn skin. His heart pounded too loud and too hard in his chest, and he had to shut his eyes against the wave of dizziness that sent the room tipping over.

Dying. He'd been dying. No two ways about it. Bleeding out his life in Sam's arms because of that crazy old man and his damn knife. Pain and fear and regret, and then nothing but the dark . . . .

"Sam, wake up," came Rosa's quietly imploring voice over the roaring in his ears, followed a little louder by, "Paige! _Wake up!_"

A surprised yelp, then there was a metallic scraping and a thud, instantly followed by a muffled "Oomph."

"Sam?" he croaked, reaching out blindly with one hand. Which was instantly caught up in a hard grip.

"I gotcha, Dean," Sam murmured, sounding as shaky as Dean felt.

A strong arm went around his shoulders and eased him down from his hunched-over position. The hand engulfing his carefully threaded beneath the IV and around bandages, holding on tight, an action that would normally have him cringing away in severe embarrassment. But hell, if Sam really needed to hang on just this once, it couldn't hurt that much, right? Then Sam's weight settled on the bed next to his hip, and his racing heart began to slow down.

"I'm here," Sam said, a little steadier. "Everything's all right, you hear me?"

"Sammy . . . ." Dean swallowed and took a deep breath before cautiously squinting his eyes open again. "'M okay, Sammy," he whispered.

Sam gave him a tired, slightly loopy grin. Rosa climbed up and over Sam's lap to settle on the bed on Dean's other side, squirming to get comfortable, while Paige pulled the chair in closer and plunked down with her knees drawn up. They all shared exhausted and somewhat shell-shocked expressions despite the obvious smiles.

Dean cracked a faint grin himself. "Hey, you guys," he rasped out. "Gang's all here, huh?"

"Hey, Dean," Sam said. The smile couldn't hide the weary relief and lingering traces of fear in his eyes. "'Bout time you woke up, dude." The grip on Dean's hand got a little tighter.

"Hey, Dean," Paige said, grinning widely at him, her eyes bright.

He gave her a wink, then lifted his free hand just enough to tap Rosa on the nose. "Nice smile there you got there, sweetheart."

She blushed and looked down.

Dean ran quick eyes over them all and relaxed a bit more. Aside from the telltale signs of having slept in uncomfortable chairs in a hospital room (which warmed him more than he'd ever admit to), they all looked pretty good. Sam's hair was its usual mess of flopping bangs and stray bits sticking out at forty-five-degree angles, but Dean saw no blood or bruises, and he was wearing his own clean clothes. The girls also looked freshly scrubbed, and were dressed in what appeared to be hospital-issue pajamas and robes.

"Everybody okay?" he asked anyway, then coughed and winced. His throat sounded – and felt – like it had sandpaper in it. Speaking of which . . . . He eased his hand from Sam's grasp and gingerly touched his neck, noticing the way the others followed the movement. No bandage, no pull of stitches. Just skin. Smooth. Unbroken.

Huh. It really had happened, then . . . .

He slanted a glance at Rosa. She just smiled again and patted his leg.

"We're fine," Sam answered firmly, gently taking Dean's hand again to lay it flat on the bed. "And you're . . . mostly fine."

"Uh, okay," Dean said warily. "How 'bout you guys fill me in on what I missed? I'm thinkin' there's . . . kind of a lot."

There was a quick exchange of glances among the three of them, and Paige's grin faded.

"Yeah," was all she said, ducking her head.

He shifted to sit up, and Sam stood to help him, raising the head of the bed a bit and fussing with the pillow and blankets. He got Dean a glass of water before sitting down again.

A couple of swallows were all Dean could manage, and as he set the glass on the bedside table, he sank back, drained from the simple act of sitting upright. He tried to ignore the way Sam's face tightened in sudden worry.

"So," Sam began, cautious. "What do you remember?"

"I uh," Dean said quietly, choosing to stare at the ceiling, "wasn't doin' so great. Irene was taking Gomer apart, and that's all I got before things turned . . . interesting." His hand went to his throat again. "The old bastard's dead, right?"

"Yeah," Sam said just as quietly. "Irene definitely saw to that."

"Good for her." Dean met Sam's eyes. "It didn't sound . . . pretty."

Sam's mouth twisted. "It wasn't."

"I wanted to help," Paige blurted, fists clutching her robe. "I wanted to hurt him, and Rosa did too – we knew we could. We could do to _him_ what he'd done to us, the same way he'd used us to hurt you. When I got in his head, and saw what he'd done over the years, to all those kids like us . . . ." She shuddered. "He would've killed us eventually. Used us up. I wanted to hurt him so bad," she finished in a whisper.

"But you didn't," Dean stated softly. "Irene wouldn't let you, would she?"

Paige shook her head. "She did it all by herself."

_Good girl, _he thought. _That's another one I owe you. _

"Then what?" he asked. "Fagin's dead. Where's the Artful Dodger? Where are_we _for that matter, and what day is it?"

Sam cocked an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Did you just make a reference to_Oliver Twist_?"

"Yeah, Sam, I did. Get over it already."

Sam's eyebrow lowered, his mouth twitched, and he appeared to be struggling not to comment.

"I hate Dickens," Dean muttered darkly. He yawned and jabbed Sam in the leg. "What happened next?"

Sam continued to fuss, tucking the blanket in a little more firmly around Dean even as he started filling in the events of the last few hours. Unfortunately, with two little girls in the room, Dean could hardly tell him to keep his fucking hands to himself and to stop acting like a goddamn princess – though from Sam's smirk, he heard the words loud and clear.

Sam went over it all – Brian's disappearance; the frantic drive – in the Impala, thank God – up and down dark, winding country roads, with Paige pointing the way back into town; Sam convincing the cops Gomer was just some crazy old man snatching kids off the street, and they'd had an unlucky run-in with him, then escaped after he'd suffered a seizure or a heart attack or something.

Naturally, no mention to the cops of a dead girl's ghost, and her revenge on the man who had killed her.

"Got you into the ER." Sam paused, met Dean's eyes, and in that moment of silence Dean heard everything that couldn't be said out loud. "Then the doc checked us out," Sam went on, "and the staff let us get cleaned up here." A smile crossed his face. "We've been sort of adopted, actually – got all the nurses fawning over Paige and Rosa like crazy. They fed us and let us spend the night in your room."

"Because Rosa wouldn't stop crying until they said okay," Paige put in.

Rosa nodded seriously. "I screamed really loud."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, I bet you did."

"And now it's . . . ." Sam glanced at his watch. "Seven-fifteen a.m.," he finished.

"And I'm not dead after getting my throat cut," Dean said, yawning again, unable to keep the drowsiness at bay. "That's a good ending." His eyes slipped shut.

"Dean? You okay?" Sam's hand, big and warm, lightly brushed across his forehead.

"Yeah, Sammy. Just . . . tired." He managed one last look. "Thanks, Rosa," he murmured. "You did good. You all did." A small hand curled around his, and another one joined it. Dean smiled and slid off into the dark.

xxxxx

All too soon, he woke groggily to a doctor, nurses in tow, clearing the room of Sam and the girls. Poking and prodding followed, not to mention numerous questions. Unwilling to talk about the injuries, especially in light of their sympathetic and curious expressions, he answered tersely and asked when he could leave. Some hemming and hawing, and a cautious wait-and-see attitude, had him nearly snarling in frustration. But then, after his first meal in days – and even the universally wretched hospital breakfast tasted good – he found himself yawning and falling asleep yet again.

Next time he woke, as he surfaced to awareness from dark, uneasy dreams, the room was empty except for Sam. He slept slouched in the chair by Dean's bed, an open book on his lap.

Dean allowed himself just to watch for a moment or two, then said, "Sammy."

Sam's head jerked up, and his body flinched, the book nearly falling off his lap. "Hey," he said in surprise, a smile forming. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

Dean stretched cautiously, a few muscles at a time, and took inventory. No more tubes or wires, at least, just the few new stitches and bandages. "Not bad," he said, slowly sitting up with Sam's help. "Considering." That wrapped-in-wool floaty feeling was gone, thanks to the drugs having worn off somewhat, and the knife wound from the revenant was unfortunately making itself known again. Not to mention all of Gomer's handiwork. Ribs. Wrists. He winced. Definitely a few bruises still present and accounted for.

No slashed throat, though. That was a significant plus.

"_You_ all right?" he asked in turn, quirking an eyebrow. "You look a step up from roadkill. Which is actually an improvement."

"Gee, thanks," Sam said, deadpan. "That means so much, coming from you."

"Aw, Sammy, don't be jealous. Just because I look good no matter what . . . ."

"Stay away from mirrors for a couple of days, okay? Wouldn't want that fragile ego of yours shattered."

"Oh, you wound me, Sam." And instantly regretted the joke at Sam's near-imperceptible cringe at the reminder of Gomer's "lesson." He reached out and gave Sam a one-handed smack on the closest body part he could reach. "Hey," he said sharply. "I thought we already decided that wasn't your fault."

"I know. But . . . ."

"What? Spit it out."

Miserable eyes came up to meet his. "It was so close, Dean," Sam said hoarsely. "At the end there, I almost . . . . I didn't want her to touch you." He swallowed. "You were bleeding out, I couldn't do anything, and I still didn't . . . . Seemed too good to be true, you know? Saw what happened with that before."

"She's the real deal," Dean said quietly, shifting the pillow behind his back and straightening up. "No smoke and mirrors. No black magic. No reaper. Just a little kid."

"Yeah, she's . . . ." Sam sighed. "Amazing, all right." He fiddled with the book on his lap before setting it aside, twining his fingers together. "She's not like me or Max, is she? Paige, either. They don't fit the pattern."

"Nope, I don't see it. Too young." Dean studied the top of Sam's shaggy head. "And Gomer wasn't a demon. Just a sick, twisted, _human_ son of a bitch. He was into some weird shit, back when he was a shrink." Dean grimaced. "Drug stuff. Trying to expand the powers of his mind and all that. Then he started finding these kids somehow, usin' 'em up, like some sort of – I dunno, energy-sucking psychic vampire. All those names Paige got out of his head . . . . I think he'd been doin' that for a long, long time, Sam."

Sam looked up. "How do you know all this?"

Dean restlessly moved his legs under the blanket. "Ol' Gomer, dude. Classic villain. Liked to talk and boast. Dropped a few things, and I sorta made some guesses."

"Like about Irene?"

"Yeah," Dean said, nodding. "Paige had mentioned her. Said she used to be with them, but not anymore. She didn't say anything about her being dead, but man, from the way she started crying . . . and then . . . ." He took a deep, slow breath. "I saw her, in the shed. When – you know."

"When I was getting ready to put a knife in your shoulder," Sam said bitterly.

"Sam, I am _not_ gonna say it again."

"Okay, okay." He raised his hands in surrender. "Big brother's always right. I got it."

"About damn time. Anyway, Irene." Dean chewed on his lower lip. "You really didn't see her? Or feel her?"

Sam shook his head. "Not then."

"So . . . what happened to her?" Dean asked, suddenly uneasy. The thought of searching for the girl's body, having to salt and burn it . . . . Maybe they could leave this one alone. Just this once.

With relief, he listened as Sam quickly filled him in on Irene's last moments and Rosa's farewell.

"She's okay, then," Dean murmured. He shifted in the bed again, wincing slightly, and asked, "So, where _are_ my girls? Their families know they're safe?"

Sam smirked. "_Your_girls, huh?"

When Dean swatted him, he just laughed.

"Yeah, all right," Sam relented. "When I last saw them, _your girls_ were finally falling asleep in their own room. Courtesy of kind donations, they've got some new clothes, and Rosa wound up with this huge Teddy bear . . . ."

"They're okay, though?" Dean asked.

Sam tilted his head. "They're still . . . in shock, a little, I think. Can't quite believe it's over. But the cops reached their families earlier, told 'em the good news. Paige was on the phone with her parents and sisters for about an hour, and they're all flying in from Oregon. Rosa – it's just her mom and a younger brother, and it took a little longer to track them down. Some small town in southern California. But they're on their way, too."

"That's good," he said, smiling. "But we could've driven 'em home in the Impala. Give 'em a road trip to remember."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, memorable is right. But don't worry. I'm sure the girls'll be back soon. They only left because they got bored watching you drool in your sleep."

Dean felt the blush start and looked away. He cleared his throat. "They're sweet kids. Smart, too. They did a good job, holding up the way they did."

Sam snickered. "You do realize, of course, that we were only saved by the combined efforts of three little girls."

Dean shot him an indignant glare. "Brilliantly executed teamwork by all of us, Sam," he corrected archly. "Besides," he added, thoughtfully, "does a dead girl count? Half, maybe?"

"Not when she did the hard part," Sam answered, sober again.

Recalling the old man's screams and pain-filled pleas for mercy, Dean said, "I'm glad she did. I didn't want . . . ." He had to clear his throat again. "I wouldn't have wanted you to have to do that so we could get away," he went on, quieter. "But I'm glad the old bastard's toast. He deserved it."

"Yeah," Sam said, looking vaguely ill for a moment. "Irene got justice. For herself, and all those other kids, too."

The unspoken addition hovered there between them.

_And you._

Dean looked down at his hands. "Yeah, Gomer sure messed with the wrong girl there, didn't he. Now," he said, carefully easing his legs out from beneath the blankets and to the floor with a wince. "I'm not dying anymore, so find a doctor and get me the hell outta here."

xxxxx

Forms and paperwork dealt with, ignored prescriptions stuffed deep into a pocket, Dean comfortably wriggled his toes inside his boots as he shrugged his leather jacket into place. He felt like he was slipping back into his skin again for the first time in days. Now if he only had a gun tucked in his belt . . . .

"Ready?" Sam asked, poking his head around the door.

Dean flipped up the collar on his jacket. "Absolutely. Let's go."

Then he groaned as Sam opened the door wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair.

"No, Sam. No." He backed up. "You are _not _gonna get me in that –"

"I don't make the rules," Sam said calmly. "You want to leave, you do it this way." He gave Dean a considering stare. "I could just pick you up and plunk you down in it. You're not exactly one hundred per cent."

"You wouldn't dare," Dean said through his teeth.

Sam smiled beatifically. And made car noises as he wheeled closer.

"Get in, and I'll take you to see your girlfriends before we go." Sam leveled a severe stare at him. "You weren't thinking of leaving without saying goodbye, were you?"

Well, he admitted guiltily to himself, maybe he was. Emo-Sammy scenes were bad enough. What was it gonna be like with two little girls? There was sure to be crying.

"Don't be such a wuss," Sam said, accurately gauging his expression.

Wuss, yeah, okay. But he wasn't a cold-hearted bastard, was he? They'd saved his life.

"All right," he grumbled, getting a smirk in return. He grudgingly sat down, trying to make it look like it didn't hurt.

"See?" Sam said cheerfully. "Knew you could do it, Gramps."

"Shut the hell up," Dean growled.

Sam picked up his duffel and put it in Dean's lap. "Here. Make yourself useful."

Dean snarled wordlessly and hung on to the bag.

They took the elevator to the third floor, and as they went past the nurses' station, Dean felt the stares on his back and the murmur of whispers.

Not that he was unaccustomed to turning women's heads, but still . . . .

"Dude," he said out of the side of his mouth. "The hell?"

"Our reputation precedes us," Sam muttered dryly back.

"Huh," Dean said, an eyebrow climbing in surprise. "What kind of reputation? The kind that gets us kicked outta town, or the kind that gets me a hot nurse's phone number?"

"Paige and Rosa may have mentioned something about a rather heroic rescue. Several times."

"Huh," Dean said again. He turned his head back toward the whispering nurses and grinned. And waved.

Sam just rolled his eyes and stopped in front of room 327, knocking lightly.

Nothing but the muffled noise of a TV emanated from behind the closed door.

Suddenly Dean wanted to bolt. He hated this stuff. He wasn't any good at it.

As if sensing his change in mood, Sam grabbed him by the shoulder and held him firmly in place as he knocked on the door.

"Dude, I am _not_going in there like this." He pushed Sam's hand aside, dropped the bag on the floor and stood up, legs only slightly wobbly, and shoved the chair away.

The door swung open a crack to reveal Paige, the scowl on her face quickly shifting to a relieved smile. "Oh, good. It's you guys. Rosa's watching cartoons, and the nurses keep telling her to turn it down. Or," she lowered her voice and rolled her eyes, "another doctor. Coming to, you know, _talk about things._" She snorted and pushed up her glasses as she stepped back to let them in. "They'd think I was crazy for sure if I told 'em what really happened."

"That's gonna have to be our secret," Sam said, gently maneuvering Dean in ahead of him. "But maybe you can still talk about the rest, okay? If you want."

She shrugged, suddenly looking older than a thirteen-year-old ever should. "Maybe," she said, flat and weary. Catching hold of Dean's hand, she brought him further into the room.

"Dean!" Cartoons forgotten and already bouncing off the bed, Rosa squealed and threw herself at him. Her arms barely reached his waist as she wrapped him up in a hug.

He staggered slightly under the eager assault, stifling a wince. Her grip caught him low on the side, right on the knife wound, but he ignored the flare of pain in favor of bending over to carefully hug her in return. "Hey, sweetheart," he said, swallowing against a sudden ache in his throat.

"Dean, my mom's coming!" She beamed up at him. "And my little brother!"

"That's great, Rosa," he said, one hand coming up to stroke her hair. "Bet she's missed you a lot. She'll be really happy to see you."

"You should come home with me," she said, those big brown eyes staring at him.

God, she was even worse than Sam with the imploring puppy look. Who would've thought _that_was possible?

"Uh . . . ." He straightened slowly, one hand still curled around one of her shoulders, and shot Sam a helpless glance.

Dean caught the fond, dopey grin on Sam's face before he could hide it, and he just knew he was never going to hear the end of this.

"They came to say goodbye, Rosa," Paige said quietly, coming to stand behind the little girl. She met Dean's gaze, and gave him a sad, knowing smile. "They can't go home with you."

"Ah, there's that super mind-reading mojo I've come to rely on," Dean said, just as quiet. He reached out to gather her up with his other arm. Pressed against his side, she buried her face in his chest, her hands twisting in his jacket.

"Don't want you to go," Rosa said, starting to cry. "Irene left, and I don't want you to go, too."

"Hey, hey, now," Dean said, cupping her face. "It's okay. Your mom's coming, and your little brother, and you'll be so glad to see them, you'll forget all about me and Sam."

"I won't," she insisted. "Won't, won't, won't."

Paige lifted her head. "Never," she whispered, looking up at him. Her eyes were wide, the fear she'd endured for so many days clear on her face. "Wouldn't have gotten out of there without you guys."

Dean swallowed again, forcibly shoving away his own nightmare memories of pain and blood and the old man's madness. "Goes both ways, sweetheart. We make a good team, remember?"

"Yeah," Paige said, trying to smile. "We sure do. Using flowerpots and whatever."

"Flowerpots, huh?" Sam teased gently, coming to stand next to Dean. "I don't think I heard that part."

With a shaky laugh, Paige said, "Dean can tell you all about it." She let go and stepped away. "Say goodbye, Rosa," she said softly, looking down at the little girl, one hand resting briefly on her hair.

"Don't want to," Rosa sniffed, now staring at the floor.

Dean awkwardly crouched down in front of her and took her hands. "I don't want to, either, Rosa. But Sam and I – well, we've got a dad out there somewhere, and we have to find him. And we've got . . . work to do."

"Killing monsters?" she asked. "Paige said you kill monsters."

_You're too young to know about monsters,_ he thought sadly. _But you've already seen one, up close and personal. I'm so sorry, Rosa. _

"Yeah," he answered gravely after a reluctant moment. "She's right. That's what we do."

She looked up, studying him, equally serious. "Okay," she said, and nodded.

Then he felt a brief flare of familiar warmth where her hands lay in his. The same warmth that had driven the pain and the cold from the very marrow of his soul, as he had lain dying in Sam's arms . . . .Within mere seconds the dull throb in his arm from the new batch of stitches eased. The wound in his side became nothing more than a slight itch. He gently removed his hands from hers and drew her in for another hug.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he whispered into her ear. "But I'm all right. Don't wear yourself out too much on a few cuts and bruises, okay?"

Pulling back, she touched his head where he'd been injured in the crash. "Didn't like hurting you," she said.

"I know," he said, nodding. "It wasn't your fault, Rosa. And then you saved my life. So I don't think I'm ever gonna forget you, either."

"Okay," she said again, giving him a slow, sweet smile.

Dean straightened from his crouch, more easily this time. "Sam's feeling left out, Rosa. You'd better give him a hug, too."

"Oh, Sam!" Stricken, she turned and grabbed his knees, unable to reach any higher.

Laughing, Sam picked her up and swung her over his head, making her shriek. "Goodbye, Rosa," he said, as he put her down again with a smile. "Thanks for looking after Dean for me."

Still giggling, she nodded. "You're welcome."

Dean traded a glance with Sam. "Time to go," he said, his voice gruff. "C'mon, Sam."

As Sam gave Paige a hug as well, Dean had already pivoted and in two quick strides was at the door and out in the hall. Then he wavered and abruptly turned around again, almost knocking into Sam as he slipped back into the room. "Here," he said, scrabbling in his pocket to pull out a pen and a scrap of paper. He scrawled his cell number down and thrust the piece of paper at Paige. "Call me. If you ever need to talk. Or anything. Either of you. Okay?"

Clutching the paper in her hand, she swallowed. "Thanks, Dean. For . . . everything."

"Anytime," he said. Then he really did have to leave. He brushed past Sam again, picked up his duffel, left the wheelchair where it was and walked swiftly down the hallway.

Sam caught up, and though he threw Dean an eloquent sideways look, thank God he was at least smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Silence reigned all the way to the parking lot, but the sight of his car in one piece nearly had Dean falling to his knees and weeping with joy. Instead he satisfied himself with a caress across her hood as he walked past to throw his bag in the trunk.

Sliding into the driver's seat had never felt so good. All was pretty much right in the world, or his world, at least, as Sam climbed in the other side, arranging his long legs into position and closing the door.

Hands on the steering wheel, Dean stared out through the windshield at the hospital for a long moment. "Think they're gonna be okay?" he asked at last.

"Kids are tough," Sam said quietly, giving Dean's own words back to him.

"Yeah," Dean murmured, thinking of Lucas. "They are. And they shouldn't have to be." He turned on the ignition and punched the tape deck. Zeppelin. Good and loud. Perfect. "Hey," he said. "We're practically in Minnesota. What say we drop in on Pastor Jim?"

Sam slouched and stretched his arm out across the back of the seat. "Sounds like a plan," he said with a tired, relaxed smile.

"Hell, yeah." He swung out of the parking lot. "Church lady pies, here we come."

Sam let out a long laugh.

Dean found his sunglasses, and pointed the Impala west.

The End.

xxxxx

(Can you believe it? Time to celebrate – everybody's invited over for margaritas and nachos. Or caramel malts and pecan pie. Mmmm. Piiiiie . . . .)


End file.
